Silent Night
by riversidewren
Summary: "I often thought I was ready to die," he gasped. "But now, I am not so sure." Athos launches a plan on Christmas Eve to allow Aramis to meet his son. Unforeseen events cause the plan to unravel, and Charlotte, an apothecary's daughter, is called upon for help. Meanwhile, Aramis and Queen Anne face a threat to their future..and that of their newborn son.
1. Chapter 1

**_"_****_O how lovely, O how pure,_**

**_Is this perfect Child of heaven"_**

_He is Born (Il est n__é)_

_Traditional 19th century French carol_

**CHAPTER I**

It was a typically gloomy December night in Paris, and the cold, damp, air was insidiously and methodically working through the labyrinthine streets and alleys of the old city. "Kindly remind me why I agreed to this," murmured Athos grimly. He and Aramis stood stoically outside the locked gate, attempting to ignore the pouring rain. A curtain of dense fog was descending, and the giant black metal grille in front of them, graced with an enormous gilt fleur-de-lis, afforded them very little view of the courtyard within. Aramis glanced at his companion, his dark eyes weary. One hand ran distractedly through his dark hair. That hair, which was unruly on the best of days, was now plastered in defeat against his head, highlighting his now prominent cheekbones. Athos scanned his friend's face, estimating that he had lost twenty pounds since the birth of the Dauphin. This weight loss was a cause for concern on the part of the Inseparables.

As had become his custom of late, Aramis remained silent, continuing to nervously tap his chest with his sodden hat, the usual jaunty feather that graced it bedraggled and lifeless. Athos finally reached out a hand and stilled the other musketeer's arm. "You're driving me mad," he snapped. Aramis looked at him again, his eyes pleading. "You promised," he said hoarsely, his voice thin with anguish.

"I promised nothing," Athos hissed in return, his clear blue eyes intent. "I knew this was a mistake from the beginning, and I told you so. You are taking a risk of incalculable proportions, and I blame myself for allowing it." He shot Aramis a look of despair mingled with frustration, then turned as the sound of a pair of boots was heard was heard echoing through the deserted courtyard. A pair of lanterns bobbed in the darkness, and steadily approached them. Threads of jovial conversation sparked with laughter drifted to them along the icy gusts of wind that skirted along the damp cobblestones.

_These musketeers are normal men_, thought Athos gloomily, adjusting his hat to allow a pool of water to drain listlessly off the brim. _Men who in a quarter of an hour will be safe within a warm, snug house. Each will sit by the hearth with an arm around a doting wife, while a sleeping child, thumb firmly in mouth, snuggles against his shoulder_. The dull, familiar pain of Anne's betrayal throbbed in his chest, and he shook his head, willing it to leave him. For tonight, he had to put his own past aside and focus entirely on the present. A present that was tormenting a vulnerable Aramis, grieving the fact that he could never claim his own son.

There was a selfish part of Athos that bitterly resented the fact that he would have to spend Christmas Eve stone-cold sober. The past five years, he had quietly whiled away the 24th of December in the familiar comfort of a large bottle of wine, preferably drunk alone in the darkest corner of a half empty tavern. But this year was to be different-_and for good reason_, his typically generous nature gently reminded him. Only he understood the true nature of Aramis' unhappiness over the past two months. While the rest of the garrison, along with the entire country, had celebrated the birth of the heir for weeks, Aramis had been absent. He had unexpectedly volunteered for a secret courier mission to the Duchess of Savoy shortly before Anne had gone into labour, and returned sometime after the christening, uncharacteristically morose and taciturn.

Porthos and D'Artagnan had assumed the trip had brought back bad memories of the massacre Aramis had miraculously survived in that region, and tried several times to draw him out. However, an indifferent wall of silence and a regretful shake of the head had been the answer each time. Athos watched his friend carefully, gauging the correct moment to broach the topic. One morning at dawn, when the two were alone on patrol just outside the city, he reached across and took hold of Aramis' reins, halting their horses. "It's the baby," he stated gently, confident in the knowledge that he was correct the second he saw a flash of sorrow pass across his companion's face. "I am right, am I not?" Aramis began to speak, a denial at the ready, and Athos read his mind instantly. "The truth, Aramis. You owe me that much."

"You're right" his friend said huskily, turning his face for an instant to hold his breath against the tears that burned against the backs of his eyes. "I have to see him Athos, just once. While he is still an infant and still"- he swallowed—"so fragile. What if some sickness were to befall him and I never got the chance…" his voice caught and trailed off. Aramis looked so miserable that Athos felt a surge of compassion, and squeezed his friend's hand. "We'll manage something," he murmured reassuringly.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER II

Athos had known full well that any plan they came up with would have to be carefully thought out and meticulously executed. If any doubt, no matter how slight, were to be raised as to the paternity of the heir to the throne, disaster could rapidly ensue. Anne and Aramis would be put under intense scrutiny, and their lives, as well as that of their son, could very well be lost as a result. The notoriously temperamental King Louis XIII, as well as his rather extensive personal staff, must never be allowed to learn that Aramis had gained access to the royal nursery.

It was an incredible stroke of luck, thought Athos, that Constance had been asked to become a lady-in-waiting to the Queen. Anne had quickly become fond of the draper's wife, and her kindness and loyalty had sustained the queen through the difficult, lonely months of her last trimester. After Anne had fainted during an extended audience in the summer heat, Louis had been terrified that another miscarriage would ensue. He had relentlessly badgered the court physician until the man, fearful of losing his head if an untoward outcome occurred, declared that the queen should go into early confinement at the beginning of her seventh month. Constance had been one of her closest attendants during that time, and was a key component of the select group that was entrusted to care for the future king.

On several mornings, Athos had caught a glimpse of Constance from a distance in the market. He recalled the first time she had seen him after she had so brutally cut ties with D'Artagnan. Constance had almost frozen in place, unsure whether he would acknowledge her presence or snub her openly. True to his good breeding, the Comte de la Fére had graciously inclined his head and saluted her with a tip of his hat, silently letting her know with the warmth in his eyes that she remained a valued friend. She had relaxed visibly with relief, and given him a grateful smile. The necessary dissociation from the garrison and its inhabitants had been difficult in more ways than one, and she often found herself longing for the easy affection and friendly banter that Porthos, Aramis, and Athos had shown her. She thought of them as brothers, and missed them terribly.

Despite this, when she wrapped her cloak around her three days before Christmas and ventured out into the chill morning air, the last person Constance expected to see was Athos. So when the familiar dulcet tones of his rich voice greeted her from a recessed doorway, she turned quickly, unable to hide her surprise.

"Athos! What are you doing up so early? It's not even seven yet!"

The corner of his mouth turned up in an ironical smile as he gave her a reproachful look. "Despite the popular impression of me, I do not descend into a drunken state every evening—and for your information, there are plenty of mornings when I am mounting my horse while the rest of Paris is still asleep."

Constance bit her tongue, ashamed of her impulsive comment. How could she have been so rude? Athos had proven himself to be a true gentleman, continuing to offer his friendship despite the fact that she had broken the heart of his trusted protégé. "I'm sorry," she stammered. "I meant no offense."

"None taken," he replied, his eyes softening. "Constance, you know I respect and admire you. With the recent—difficulty—you have every reason to give musketeers a wide berth. However, I have come to ask you for help. Not for me, and not for," he hesitated, then plunged on, "whom you might expect. It is for Aramis."

Constance sighed maternally, an affectionate smile spreading across her face. "Which husband has he offended this time?" she asked impishly.

Athos cleared his throat and glanced around to make sure the street was still empty. "One who remains ignorant," he began cautiously, his voice lowered. "And who is very powerful."

"Not the Cardinal!" she gasped. "Please tell me no."

"No," Athos replied slowly. "It's not him."

Constance scoffed. "Well, then you must be mistaken. After all, who is more powerful than the Cardinal?" Athos' steady blue gaze met her own eyes, and he raised an eyebrow. She suddenly realized what he was implying, and her hand flew to her mouth. "Anne?" she whispered in disbelief, immediately terrified for the gentle queen, who was proving to be a loving and devoted mother.

"And an innocent child," he added quietly.

She shook her head, unable to believe this even of the irresistible, charming force of nature that she well knew Aramis to be. "It's impossible."

"Apparently not," he answered dryly, then instantly sobered. "Lives are at stake, Constance. Aramis is not himself. All he thinks about is seeing the baby, even if just for five minutes, and I am afraid he will do something reckless if he doesn't have a steady hand to guide him."

"And you have taken it upon yourself to be that steady hand,' she murmured in understanding. "Athos, you are a good friend—and a brave one." Making up her mind in that instant, she said resolutely, "If you are willing to take the risk, so am I. What do you need me to do?"

Treville had proven to be a bit trickier. When Athos had concluded his routine weekly meeting with the captain by casually volunteering himself and Aramis for Christmas Eve guard duty at the palace, Treville had instantly regarded him with suspicion. That particular guard shift was widely regarded at the worst of the year, and was traditionally given to the two newest musketeers. The captain always attempted to soften the announcement of the posting by calling the two men to his office and giving a patriotic speech proclaiming the assignment as "an embodiment of the trust and confidence that France and the King place in you."

The musketeers would politely thank him, then inevitably leave his office in a state of dejection to find the rest of the regiment lined up in the courtyard to serenade them with a rousing rendition of "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen." The performance was followed by a raucous evening feast involving a boar's head, which was borne into the hall with great ceremony, inevitably sporting the distinctive helmet of a Red Guard. Liquid refreshment was provided in the form of a gigantic barrel of wassail made from Porthos' closely guarded recipe. The big man had a customary reply for the unwary soul who would ask him for the recipe. Glaring at the offender, he would assuming his most menacing look and growl, "That recipe is like gold dust. You don't just give it away." This approach had time and again proven extremely effective in bringing the conversation to an end.

Already anticipating the rather unwelcome task of breaking the news to two young men that their Christmas was effectively ruined, the captain was momentarily thrown off guard by Athos' offer of himself and Aramis for guard duty. He narrowed his eyes and gave Athos a look that mingled wariness and resignation. "What is Aramis up to this time? Don't tell me he's got a romance brewing with some young woman in the palace."

Athos had nearly completely lost his well-known reserve, stunned by how close Treville had inadvertently come to the actual truth. Quelling his inner agitation, he continued on with the assurance of a man accustomed to ruling a large estate. "It is your decision, Captain," he said easily, his smooth voice calm and unruffled. "But I can assure you that nothing of the sort is going on." _At least, not at the moment_. "Actually, I must confess I'm rather offended that you would assume the worst. As I have been bereft of family for some years now, I have grown accustomed to spending Christmas alone. Aramis is without company this year as well," he added delicately, "and we decided it would be our gift to the young musketeers—to allow them to spend Christmas off duty with their families."

Relieved to have his fears allayed, Treville nodded approvingly. "That's very generous of you both. I'm sorry to have raised my doubts about motives—"the captain gave Athos an apologetic smile, "—but I'm sure you understand why, given the past history of our mutual friend."

Athos inclined his head. "I do indeed. Thank you for indulging us." As he left the office, he breathed a sigh of relief, then set his jaw as he placed his hat on his head and slung his cloak over his shoulder. _I still cannot believe you slept with the queen_, he thought darkly, and shook his head. _You will definitely owe me for this. I just hope I will live long enough to collect in this life._


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER III

As the gate swung open, the musketeers going off duty quickly handed the lanterns to Aramis and Athos, assuring them that the palace grounds were quiet. While one young man kept glancing at the street, clearly anxious to be off, the other, who seemed to be a more responsible sort, came to attention and respectfully greeted the two senior men. "All's clear at the moment. The King and Queen, as well as their household, have just left for the cathedral to hear Midnight Mass. All's that's left is the kitchen staff, the Dauphin, and his nurse. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas to you both as well," replied Athos easily as he locked the gate behind his junior colleagues. "Enjoy your well-deserved day of rest."

"Let's go," muttered Aramis, pacing in agitation and nearly bursting with impatience. "We haven't much time."

"Which is why I need you to relax," responded Athos with the quiet calm that made him the leader he was. "Lives are at stake here, including that of an innocent child."

His companion's eyes blazed. "Do you really think I am unaware of that, Athos?" he answered, his icy voice laced with sarcasm. "I have thought of nothing else for the past three days."

Athos gripped him by the arm and lowered his voice to a dangerous growl as he locked eyes with Aramis. "You think I don't understand because I am childless. Look at me, Aramis. I walk this earth every day knowing that I am responsible for the death of the brother I loved dearly. I wish that burden of guilt on no man."

Aramis fell silent, his eyes sliding past Athos to stare at the palace. "The east wing. We can be there in less than ten minutes if we move quickly." He placed a hand on Athos' shoulder and gave him a look of sincere compassion. "Please forgive me. I know I can never replace Thomas, but know that in my heart, you are my brother."

The hint of a smile appeared on Athos' face. "Then let's go meet your son—and my nephew."

Striding across the cobblestones at the measured pace his companion set, Aramis fought valiantly against the nervous energy roiling inside him. He forced himself to channel the cool authority that radiated from Athos so naturally. _You are so close. Don't lose sight of why you are here._ As they traversed the form and came to the guard post, Athos took Aramis' lantern and motioned with his head towards the end of the corridor.

"Up the far set of stairs, turn right, and enter the second room on the left. Constance will be waiting."

"Got it," Aramis replied, feeling more focused than he ever had in his life. As he turned to leave, Athos stopped him. "Aramis, be careful. And—congratulations."

He received in return something he had not seen in almost three months-one of Aramis' trademark brilliant, disarming smiles. Athos relaxed, seeing a bit of his friend's spirit coming back to life. He had guessed correctly that this last sentence would mean the world to Aramis. This was likely the only time he would receive any acknowledgement of the joy he felt at knowing that he had a child—a boy who might have his eyes, his keen sense of humor, or his generous heart. _Hopefully he won't have quite the impulsive streak_, Athos thought as he watched his comrade disappear up the stairs. But then, that impulsivity was what defined Aramis—and it was his reckless disregard for convention that had saved the life of one of his friends on more than one occasion. It was also what had sparked the creation of the perfect little baby that slept peacefully in his opulent bassinet, unaware that his father was not the monarch of France, but the bravest of the King's Musketeers.


	4. Chapter 4

**Many thanks for the kind comments I've received so far. Writing this story has been a lot of fun, and it's definitely taken some turns I had not anticipated. The feelings and angst are a little more prominent in this chapter, but action will follow soon. I'm ahead in the story right now, so I may post more frequently until Christmas slows the pace. Let me know what you think...**

CHAPTER IV

Constance was on edge, and found herself pacing back and forth across the sitting room that adjoined the royal nursery. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, but she could not will herself to sit and continue knitting the woollen cap she was making for the small prince. After all, she was risking everything-her friendship with the Queen, her position, and possibly her life-by allowing herself to be drawn into the plan that was now unfolding in the last hours of Christmas Eve. But once the door opened soundlessly and Aramis' eyes met hers, she knew without a shadow of a doubt that she had done the right thing. The person standing before her was not the carefree, dashing musketeer that she had remembered. Instead, she saw a man that she barely recognized. Aramis was thin- too thin. His face, drawn and pale, hinted at an abundance of sleepless nights. In striking contrast, his deep brown eyes burned with an intensity that bespoke a determination bordering on desperation.

"Constance," he said quietly, his voice devoid of his usual teasing tone. He held out his arms, and she hugged him tightly, her eyes filling with tears. "I've missed your common sense," he whispered, holding her close. After a moment, she pulled away to hold his face in her hands. There was so much she wanted to say, but all she could manage was a whisper. "Go to him." She nodded towards the door to the next room. He stared at the ten feet that separated him from his son, but remained motionless. "Go on," she said encouragingly.

"I don't know if I can," he finally replied, his voice breaking with uncertainty. A dull laugh escaped from his mouth. "How ironic is that? I've done nothing but long for this moment for months, and now that it's here, I'm actually afraid." he stopped, and his gaze met hers. "What if I can't stand the pain? To be so close-to cradle him in my arms-and yet know he can never be mine? Perhaps that is to be my punishment from God."

"No, Aramis, you** know** that's not true. Your God is a God of mercy. You've said it yourself, many times," said Constance soothingly, pained to see him so tortured.

"Yes, so I have," he replied bitterly, and wandered over to the window, resting his forehead against the cold glass as his arms braced against the frame. "But Constance, maybe God has finally given up on me. After all, I didn't spend a second to think of the consequences for Isabelle-to say nothing of the possibility of a baby-when we became intimate. All I thought about was myself and my own pleasure. What was I thinking? We were only teenagers, for God's sake. And did I learn from my mistake? No." He shook his head and turned to perch on the sill and face her. As he slumped against the window, the tears he had held at bay for several months finally defied his self-control.

"You know, the first time I heard the King talking so proudly about his heir he'd sired, I honestly thought I would lose my mind. I had no idea how agonizing it would be. And now I will suffer, and Anne will suffer. My son will have to grow up dressed in stifling, princely clothes that no little boy should have to wear. The carefree life I had as a child will never be his. He will never be more than ten feet away from a tutor or a guard. He will be forbidden to climb trees and pick apples, for fear he might be hurt. He will never be able swim in the river on a whim, or spend all day exploring the countryside with just his dog for company. There will be expectations, and etiquette, and the pressure of having a king for a father. A king who is pompous, self-centered, and petty- and doesn't love the mother of my son the way she…"

"Stop it," ordered Constance firmly, moving to his side and kneeling next to him. "There is nothing that can be done about it now. What's done is done. You can still be important in his life. Look at Treville. With the exception of the Cardinal, the King trusts no one more. _Aramis, you're the finest of the king's musketeers—a man any little boy would idolize. A word from you will have more influence than you can possibly imagine." She stopped and smiled at him knowingly. _"Especially if you teach him to shoot." Enthusiasm radiated from her face, and he found himself smiling at her through his tears. "You are a rare woman, Constance. I treasure our friendship—despite all the times your hand has somehow made contact with my face in a somewhat aggressive manner."

"It was nothing that wasn't deserved," retorted Constance briskly as she rose to her feet, secretly relieved to finally hear a comment made in true Aramis fashion. "Now put down your weapons—I'll not have you armed to the teeth when you see your baby for the first time—and take off that rain-soaked jacket before you drip all over my carpet. I'll fetch you a towel to dry your hands, and then we'll go meet your son." He nodded and did as she instructed, grateful to have her taking charge, thus allowing him several more minutes to collect himself. He unbuckled his sword belt, and laid his arquebus and pistols on the small table by the fire. He shed his leather jacket quickly, his hand running absently over the pauldron. He hung it up neatly to dry, fearing Constance's wrath if he did otherwise. Standing in front of the hearth, he warmed his hands, trying to decide if he should actually wake the baby, or merely have a look at him and allow him to sleep. As he deliberated, Aramis suddenly realized that he had no real idea of how much time had already passed. A few moments might be all that was left. He began to panic, and fervently wished that he'd thought the whole thing through well beforehand. When he heard Constance re-enter the room, he decided he had waited long enough.

Turning, he blurted out, "l can't wait any longer. Let's…" His words died away as he saw Constance approach him with a small bundle wrapped in a white silk blanket embroidered with a gold fleur-de-lis. A tiny fist stretched up, and Aramis stared at it, transfixed by the impossibly small fingers. The look on his face was one of pure wonder, and absolute, unmistakable joy. He scarcely heard the words that were spoken next. "I guessed you wouldn't want to wait, so I brought him to you. Say hello to the most beautiful baby in all of France."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter V... in which Milady makes an appearance and the action picks up a bit. Hopefully my writing is remaining true to character.**

CHAPTER V

Athos stood guard at the staircase to the east wing, alert for any approaching footsteps. After ten minutes went by, he judged enough time had passed for Aramis to successfully gain entrance to the nursery, and breathed a sigh of relief. From his position, he had a clear view of the long gallery that led to the east wing. It was composed of a series of graceful arches, with sections between them featuring portraits of the current and former rulers of France. A candelabra shone at the far end of the gallery, casting light upon the richly embroidered crimson rug that marked the area where the king and queen often received visiting nobles.

The musketeer closed his eyes for just an instant, recalling the day he had been standing in that very spot in his former life as the Comte de la Fère. He and his wife, lacking the lustre of the some of the more important aristocratic families, had been at the periphery of the gathering. He had never felt comfortable in that sort of environment, preferring instead the solitude and peace of his estate. Anne had sensed his disquiet, and had squeezed his hand affectionately. He had looked down at her, unable to believe how lucky he was to have this beautiful, guileless woman at his side. The smile she gave him in return was one of pure adoration, her green eyes sparkling. Everyone else in the room had simply ceased to exist, and he had almost committed an unforgivable breach of etiquette by kissing her. He had been so happy—and so terribly, terribly mistaken.

Athos found it difficult to understand how he, who prided himself on being a very good judge of the subtleties of human behaviour, had been so deceived. It was almost as if a spell had been cast over him from the moment he saw her. Her very presence was bewitching, and she had been so adept at engaging all his senses, right from the beginning. Even now, he was positive he could detect her jasmine scent in the evening air. As the alluring notes of her fragrance seemed to descend upon him, he shook his head, trying to banish the memory from his mind.

The point of a dagger suddenly pricked the flesh of his throat, and his eyes flew open, frantically searching for his assailant. A rustle of silk came from behind him, and a scornful, throaty laugh reverberated into his ear.

"You are **so** predictable, Athos. You always were. Rather a common trait for a comte."

_God, please, no. Not tonight of all nights. Not here._

He struggled to stem the intense panic that threatened to overwhelm him, and forced his voice to project his usual aura of calm and control. "You are incredibly foolish. I told you I'd kill you if you ever came back to France. Even the Cardinal can't protect you now."

She laughed again, this time a bitter, caustic laugh that sent a cold chill down his spine. The dagger cut into his skin, giving rise to a slow ribbon of crimson blood that trickled down his neck. Milady smiled in satisfaction as he reflexively flinched. Her lips approached his jawline, and brushed against his skin for a fraction of a second, seeking to provoke the desire for her that she knew he had been unsuccessful in completely banishing from his brain. Feeling him tense, she moved closer, and trailed her lips down one side of his neck as she held the knife firmly against the other side. "I believe I have the upper hand at the moment," she breathed, almost feral in her confidence. "Besides, the Cardinal's star is no longer on the rise. A new, more-imaginative—patron is behind me now. But I still have access to the Cardinal's rooms, and as I was going through his papers, I was intrigued to see that you and Aramis would be on guard in the palace on Christmas Eve, of all days. There was no way I could allow that to pass without seeing for myself what was the incredible draw for the two of you. Care to enlighten me?"

"We are merely doing our duty," he said hoarsely. "No more, no less."

"Do you think I am stupid?" she snapped, the knife moving a fraction of an inch and slicing deeper, creating a new, more steady stream of blood in the wake of the first cut. He gasped, and allowed his body to slump in her grip for just a moment. In that instant, she was caught off guard. Athos whipped his left arm up with a savage thrust and forced the knife from her hand, sending it clattering to the floor. With brutal force, he pinned her arms against the wall and threw the full weight of his body against her. "I warned you," he snarled, his face so close to hers that she began to feel real fear for the first time that night, averting her gaze slightly to avoid the intensity of the emotion in his eyes. She had seen uncontrollable anger there, but also a trace of unresolved regret_. Damn you, why did you have to show me that?_ Annoyance flooded through her, a well-honed defence against the tiny bit of conscience that lay dormant at the back of her mind and chose to make its presence known at the most inopportune times.

"Go ahead," she spat at him. "Let's see if you have the stomach to finish the job this time."

A rage he had never known surged through his body, and one hand went to her neck, encircling it in a vise-like grip. "All I have to think about is Thomas," he muttered. "That will more than motivate me this time." Her eyes widened as she met his cold, predatory stare, and she felt the breath begin to leave her body. "Athos," she managed to gasp.

"I will not look away," he growled. "This time, I will see you through to hell."

As he tightened his hold, glimpses of his life flashed through his mind. Thomas, laughing as he challenged him to another round of sword practice. His parents, smiling proudly at him on his wedding day. D'Artagnan, confronting him in the courtyard at the garrison, demanding justice for his father's death. Porthos, fighting with him back to back against a group of vicious bandits. Aramis, calling his name from across….

"ATHOS!" A shot rang out, followed by another._ Aramis._ Athos felt his heart pound as he realized the frantic shout he heard was not in his mind, but had come from just yards away. As he glanced over his shoulder worriedly, Anne took advantage of the distraction and the resultant momentary loosening of his grip to slip out of his grasp. She backed against the nearest arch, and hissed, "Make up your mind, Athos. Finish me off now? Or go to the aid of your precious Aramis? Decide now, or you will lose both of us." Athos did not even hesitate. He threw her a look of pure hatred and turned, racing up the stairs.

** A bit of a cliffhanger...more action to come!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter VI...in which things take an unexpected turn in the midst of a fight to protect the heir to the throne. **

CHAPTER VI

A mere five minutes beforehand, Constance had carefully transferred the baby to Aramis' arms, and her breath had been taken away by his reaction. He had gently held his son, who stretched, yawned, and promptly nestled against his father's chest, one small hand tightly fisted in the snowy white linen of his uniform shirt. Aramis had gingerly traced the boy's face with his finger, his eyes memorizing every detail. The cheekbones were obviously his. The mouth? It was Anne's, he decided with a smile. Perfectly proportioned lips, with a sweet little dimple just to the left-a dimple that was accentuated by the intermittent cooing sounds the baby made as he slept. Squirming slightly, the little boy shifted position, one tiny foot kicking Aramis in the side.

A joyous, deep laugh escaped the musketeer, causing Constance's throat to tighten with emotion. "You're a strong one," he said in a soft voice. His words roused the baby as if by magic, and the little boy opened his large blue eyes, looking directly at his father. Aramis would remember that look—so innocent, so trusting- to his dying day, and it seemed to penetrate his very soul. The enormity of it all overwhelmed him, and he sat down in the chair by the fire, the tears silently running down his face as he held his son tightly, wishing this moment could last forever. Constance turned away, allowing him the privacy he needed at that moment. Wandering to the window, she peered out at the misty courtyard below, smiling with contentment at the peaceful scene unfolding behind her on this holiest of nights.

Her eyes followed their usual route, along the opposite wall of the west wing of the palace, skipping over the ornate portico that led to the reception hall, and down to the small enclosed courtyard that she crossed at least a dozen times a day. Suddenly, she frowned. Perhaps she had imagined it, but she thought she had seen the glint of metal from the corner of the courtyard nearest to her vantage point. A second later, it appeared again, and several more followed. Straining her eyes through the fog, Constance was horrified to see a band of five masked men stealthily creeping along the wall, halting as they reached the door to the old servants' entrance that led up a back staircase to the opposite end of the east wing. _Surely not_, she thought, trying to ignore her rising fear. _It's impossible. That was sealed off long ago. When Treville inspected the building before the nursery was moved there, he assured me the building was practically impenetrable. _As she moved back slightly from the window in order to avoid being seen, the men, in single file, suddenly disappeared below her into the building.

"Aramis," she said urgently, "We have to get out of here. Now."

He looked at her with confusion, but years of being a soldier had him out of the chair in an instant. Deftly transferring the baby to her after a swift kiss on his downy forehead, he pulled on his jacket in one fluid motion and reached for his arquebus and sword belt. Only then did he pause to ask, "How many? Where?"

"Five," she replied, her voice resolute. "They've breached the building through the old servants' entrance."

"How much time do we have?"

"Two minutes, maybe three. Give me your sword."

"No," Aramis' terse reply brooked no argument. "You've proven you can wield a sword in my defense, Constance, but now is not the time. Your only mission is to get my son out of here safely. Think quickly. How can that be managed?"

Constance's mind raced as she weaved through a mental map of the building in her mind. "The queen's sitting room!" she blurted out. "There's a secret staircase that leads from it to the chapel. There's a small detachment of Red Guards at Midnight Mass there right now. They were supposed to be at their garrison chapel, Saint Antoine's, but the building burnt down last night. If I can reach them, I'll be safe."

"Lead the way," Aramis ushered her out the door and as they raced down the hall, Constance holding the baby tightly, they heard a shout from the far end. "The candles!" she hissed. It was too late now to extinguish the tapers burning in the hall, and Aramis knew they'd been spotted. He instinctively raised the alarm, shouting in desperation for Athos as he fired one of his pistols at the cluster of men at the end of the hall. The ensuing confusion this unexpected first strike caused allowed Constance and Aramis a few seconds to retreat further, hugging against the wall. They had almost reached the queen's quarters when a shot rang out and careened off the wall next to them, nearly missing Constance. Aramis pushed her behind a pillar as a second shot was fired, this time going wide by a foot. The musketeer, taking cover behind a stone archway, fired back with deadly accuracy, succeeding in distracting attention from the pillar that hid Constance and her precious cargo. A stocky man was hit in the shoulder, the impact sending him sprawling to the floor. "One man down!" Aramis called out in a clear voice. "Reinforcements are just around the corner. It's not too late to abandon your venture."

"Not quite yet," shouted a surly voice. A coarse guffaw followed, then another man yelled, "We'll leave when we're good and ready—in other words, when we have the heir in our hands." A man who appeared to be the leader, and who seemed completely at ease, peered out casually from behind an alcove. He grinned and shook his head, calling down the hallway in the direction of Aramis and Constance. "It won't work. We know for a fact there's only two of you musketeers on duty —well, actually, apparently only one. Your partner must be asleep in a corner somewhere." A snicker followed, then silence.

A cool voice rang out from behind the intruders. "Gentlemen, I regret to inform you that you are very much mistaken." As the man closest to Athos reached for his weapon, the musketeer quickly dispatched him with a shot to the chest. Chaos followed, and in the ensuing melee, Aramis guided Constance and the infant Dauphin to the queen's chambers, reloading his pistol and firing as they went. He remained in the hall to cover their retreat, and once he had glimpsed them safely disappear down the stairs, he hastened to rejoin the fight in earnest. The musketeers had the advantage of having effectively trapped the last three opposing able-bodied men. Within minutes, the stress of trying to protect themselves from fire on both ends of the hall led the would-be kidnappers to make foolish mistakes, and all five lay on the floor, motionless.

Aramis stepped lightly over the two bodies in front of him and made his way to Athos, clapping his shoulder warmly in greeting. He spoke quietly, his voice husky with emotion. "Thank you for coming to my rescue, my friend. More importantly, I am in your eternal debt for making this meeting possible. It means more to me than you can possibly imagine." Seeing the joy shining in his friend's eyes, Athos immediately felt ashamed that he had initially balked at the whole plan. When Aramis had made his first tentative proposal, Athos' mind had conjured up a thousand possible obstacles and untoward outcomes, and he had been reluctant to commit. As he returned Aramis' smile, his caution now seemed ridiculous. _Why was I so worried? After all, we've had been in much tougher situations. Porthos was right when he told me that I am always too pessimistic. Perhaps this Christmas will be a new beginning for me, as well_ _as for Aramis_. Just at that moment, out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the intruders move ever so slightly. The bloodied man, whom they had presumed dead, lifted his pistol in one moment of superhuman strength, directed it at Aramis, and pulled the trigger.

**I know this is a cruel way to leave you hanging, but I promise more will follow soon! Many thanks to those who have reviewed. As I said to one kind reviewer, dg101, it has been incredibly fun to interact with people around the world who love the Musketeers as much as I do!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter VII... in which the author gets a sigh of relief from one segment of the fandom, and a "noooo!" from another segment. An OC is also introduced, and will come to play an important part later on. **

CHAPTER VII

"Aramis!" Athos shouted, pushing him out of the way just in time to prevent the new father from becoming a casualty. The unfortunate result of this heroic action was that Athos found himself lying dazed on the floor, blood pouring from his shoulder. His hearing seemed to have dulled considerably, but he thought he heard another pistol fire in the distance. Then Aramis was at his side, and everything seemed to be in slow motion. A detachment of Red Guards was suddenly milling about, and Aramis seemed to be arguing with them in a rather heated fashion. His vision seemed to dim, and he felt so incredibly fatigued. _I'll just close my eyes, just for a moment_. The thought had just left his brain when a resounding slap across his face jolted his eyes open.

"Don't you dare!" Constance's face swam above him, and her voice trembled.

"You must have me confused with Aramis," Athos croaked, his throat feeling impossibly dry. "I seriously doubt I've done anything to merit that kind of treatment."

"Yes you have! Do **_not_** go to sleep on me! Aramis has gone to fetch a physician."

Those words cut short his vain attempt at humour, and his face turned even paler than it already was. "I must be dying, then," murmured Athos in a voice full of confusion and shock. "Aramis would never leave me unless he felt my injuries were beyond his skills." He lifted his blue eyes, usually so clear and alert, but now dulled by pain and uncertainty, to Constance. "Am I correct?"

She hesitated for a moment, then took her hand in his.

"Don't lie to me, Constance," he rasped, coughing weakly.

"Before Aramis left, he said the wound was serious, and the services of a skilled physician were required," she said gently, choosing her words with care.

"I **am** dying," Athos said listlessly, convinced now by her poorly disguised agitation. He turned his head to the side with an effort, struggling to control his breathing, which seemed to be becoming more difficult by the second. "I know Porthos has already left for Chartres….but where is D'Artagnan? I must see him."

"He's coming," Constance replied softly. "I sent for him as soon as I could." She bit her tongue, wondering if it was a sin to tell a lie to a man whose life was draining out of him. The truth was that the reply from the garrison from to her urgent message had been handed to her just a moment ago_. D'Artagnan is nowhere to be found. I will be there as soon as I can—gone to find an apothecary, in case a physician cannot be found on Christmas Eve. Treville. _

A member of the kitchen staff had been pressed into service as a reluctant delivery boy. He sullenly dropped a blanket into Constance's lap before averting his eyes and scurrying out of sight. She glared at his back as he disappeared, then turned to cover up a shivering Athos, smoothing back the hair from his face. Her touch seemed to relax him, and the shaking chills appeared to abate somewhat.

At that moment, Aramis reappeared, and dropped on the other side of Athos, kneeling to face her. He shook his head, his eyes wild and desperate. _No luck_, he mouthed, unwilling to have Athos hear him. _Did he ask for me_? She nodded slowly, and saw the distress in his eyes. Her heart froze. _He will know there is no hope now._

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Meanwhile, Treville was several streets away, frantically pounding on the door of the apothecary for the third time. It had taken him ten minutes to find the shop—ten precious minutes that he could ill afford to waste while Athos lay bleeding. The captain could see the flicker of a candle through a chink in the wood, and cursed at the intransigence of the man in refusing to open the door. "Apothecary! Open up! I know someone's in there!" he roared, kicking the door with his heavy boot. "By the order of the king, open up now!"

Tentative footsteps were heard, along with the noise of someone scrabbling with the latch. The door creaked open an inch, and a young woman peered out. Her brown eyes, soft and intelligent, regarded him cautiously, taking in his blue cloak and authoritative manner. Curly auburn hair spilled down her shoulder, escaping from a hastily tied knot at the back of her head. She did not appear to be intimidated, but was respectful and courteous, addressing him by his rank. "I apologize, Monsieur Captain. I see you are on Musketeer business, so I can only assume your situation is of the utmost importance. My father is the apothecary whom you seek, but he is unfortunately not at home at present. Whom may I say called?"

Treville hit the frame of the door in frustration, cursing under his breath. He looked up to see that the young woman had shrank back slightly from the door, and just a hint of trepidation had appeared on her face. "Forgive me, mademoiselle," he said softly. "I am not myself tonight. One of my best men, a true hero of France, lies on the edge of death at the palace. He was grievously wounded defending the life of the Dauphin. I had hoped your father might be able to assist in healing him, or if that proves-impossible-perhaps ease his..." he swallowed, his throat tightening at the unthinkable.

Charlotte Gaillard could hear the misery in his voice, and her heart filled with compassion for the injured man who had sacrificed so much for a helpless infant, the son of her king. Her mind was made up instantly, and she unlatched the door and reached for her cloak. "I am not a licensed apothecary, for obvious reasons," the young woman stated calmly, fastening the worn metal clasp at her throat. She extinguished quickly the flash of rage she felt against French law, which made it virtually impossible for women to practice in any field that was even remotely related to medicine, with the exception of midwifery. "But my father has taught me much, and I have picked up some knowledge from the healers that come to our shop. I'll do what I can to help."

It was true that she had gained a reputation as having some degree of skill, so it was not unheard of for her to be asked for assistance for the sick. However, she was well aware that she was only ever considered as a last resort. When she was working in the shop and her father was out, a flustered man would often come in, panic building in his eyes when he saw her father was not at his usual position at the herb-grinding table. Charlotte knew well what would happen next—a request would follow for the apprentice. "Michel is here, is he not?" the customer would ask hopefully, eyeing her with scepticism. And it wasn't just the men—women often followed the same routine.

Charlotte had learned to suppress the disappointment she had felt the first several times that her father's apprentice was requested instead of her. She knew it was not fair, but it could not be helped—Paris in her time was not accepting of a woman operating in a man's world. She was the first to admit that she was definitely not the best or most experienced person in the business of preparing and dispensing medicine, but she cared about her work, and had genuine concern for the people they served. Michel, on the other hand, often complained about the customers, whom he more often than not found long-winded and annoying, and was mainly interested in tallying up the weekly receipts and charting the profits.

Keeping the shop in the black and food on the table was important to Charlotte, but it was not all-consuming, as it was for Michel. The young woman had a talent for working with the sick, and her patience and kindness allowed her to sort through the often labyrinthine story of the illness a cure was being sought for. Her father was gifted with the ability to quick establish rapport with customers, and she had learned from him how to direct the conversation adroitly in order to ask incisive questions. She sensed at times that Michel was almost jealous of her father's pride in her similar ability, but she kept that suspicion to herself. Her father was easily fatigued of late, and he relied upon Michel to keep the shop running when he had to rest.

However, the fact that Michel didn't care enough to spend the time to ask the right questions bothered her. Taking a proper history was the key to keeping the risks to the patient at a minimum. With the right pieces of information, it was more likely that the correct medicine would be chosen to help the patient. Apothecaries did not typically have the advantage a physician did of being able to directly examine the patient. While she enjoyed the challenge of putting the clues together from a conversation with a customer, Michel, on the other hand, was impatient.

His usual routine would start by smoothly cutting off a customer before he had more than the most rudimentary facts at hand. He would then steer the conversation to try to discern how wealthy or important the person standing in front of him was. Someone who met his standards for being a member of the higher strata of society would then receive a second, more detailed, round of inquiries into the ailment that treatment was being sought for. If, on the other hand, he thought the order was coming from someone poor or insignificant, and thus not worth his time, he would quickly throw together an herbal concoction and usher them out the door with a false smile, jingling their coin in his hand as the door banged.

Michel was helped greatly by the fact that he had the unfair advantage of being both charming and handsome. Customers thought highly of him, unaware that he often made fun of their accents or stories once they had left the shop. More problematic was the fact that Charlotte increasingly had an uneasy feeling that he had his sights on inheriting the shop from her father, which he would be able to neatly accomplish by marrying her. And that, she did not think she could possibly stomach.

Just last week, she had caught her father wistfully watching them working side by side at the long counter in the shop. Michel had actually said something somewhat witty for once, and she had laughed despite the fact that she often felt her skin crawl when he came near her. Claude Gaillard had looked at his daughter approvingly, and that evening, he had said quietly. "We were so lucky to find Michel. He is good for business, and he has allowed me to step back a bit to take care of my health. He is a true gentleman, Charlotte."

"Yes, he has been a help," said Charlotte neutrally.

Her father had taken her face in his hands and given her a gentle smile. "I know you are not in love with him, Charlotte-but he would make a fine husband. Perhaps you should give him a chance."

She had been so shocked that she had been at a loss for words. Then she had summoned a reassuring look to her face, not wanting to upset him on a day when he had been feeling better than usual. Charlotte had paused a moment, then replied softly, "I am still young, Papa, and I do not think I am quite ready for marriage. But I will consider what you have said."

_Papa_. Charlotte hastily scribbled a note explaining that she had been summoned to the palace, and carefully pinned it to the door. As she slung a leather satchel around her shoulder and locked the door, she asked casually, "Will there be a physician in attendance?"

Treville paused for a moment, suddenly realizing he might be putting the young woman in a difficult spot. He was well aware of the feud that was currently raging between physicians and apothecaries in Paris. The physicians jealously guarded their territory, and any time an apothecary became involved in direct patient care, he (or she in this rare instance) was taking the risk that a medical doctor might be consulted on the case. The typical outcome of such situations was that the physician, insulted that an apothecary had been called first, would lodge a formal complaint with the mayor's office. A claim would be made that the apothecary had overstepped the bounds of his expertise, especially if the condition of the patient had worsened. It was well known that the physicians' guild had significant influence in the city. In fact, heavy pressure was commonly applied to municipal judges to ensure that apothecaries in such cases were declared guilty and assessed heavy fines.

"I cannot lie to you," admitted Treville with a sigh. "It is more than certain that once the King finds out what has transpired, a physician will be quickly found. But right now, the King is at Mass, and the message has not yet reached him-and my man cannot wait." His steady gaze met that of the young woman, and his voice became urgent. "Mademoiselle, Athos has suffered much in his days, and I will **not** deprive him of any chance, however slim, of saving his life. So if you cannot accept the risk, tell me now, and I will be on my way to continue the search for someone who **can** help me."

Charlotte was touched by his dedication to his men. "I am with you," she replied softly, placing her hand on his arm. "Let us delay no longer." Treville gave her an approving look, and helped her up onto his horse. A moment later, they were galloping through the dark streets at breakneck speed. Ten minutes' ride away, Athos lay in a large four poster bed, his body wracked with pain. A church bell in a tower several blocks away tolled once to signal the one o'clock hour, then fell silent.

**I know there is less of Aramis and Athos in this chapter, but I wanted to make a little detour to fill in Charlotte's back story. Disclaimer: I know next to nothing about apothecaries/pharmacies and laws regarding them in 17th century France, so if there are any experts out there, please excuse any inaccuracies. However, being able to fill in the blanks with my imagination allows for more wiggle room in plot development...**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter VIII...in which King Louis XIII is his usual spoiled self (I used the acting of the fabulous Ryan Gage as inspiration while writing this), Aramis and Anne's eyes meet from across a room, and our OC works to save Athos' life...**

**CHAPTER VIII**

At the palace, all was in upheaval. The King and Queen had left the cathedral the moment the message had been delivered to inform them of the attempted kidnapping. Their driver had urged the horses on, and they had careened through the street to reach the palace in record time. When the carriage door was opened, Anne sprinted up the steps despite her voluminous skirts, and Louis was not far behind. They were quickly ushered into the front reception room, where Constance was relieved to hand the baby to his frantic mother. Anne held her son close to her heart, tears streaming down her cheeks. She softly stroked his head, murmuring quietly ostensibly to comfort the baby, but more to calm herself.

Wiping her eyes, she looked up, and froze when she saw who was standing just outside the door. It was Aramis, hat in hand, nervously shifting his balance from foot to foot. He was motioning to someone in the hallway, and was silhouetted in the candlelight cast by the large tapers burning near the door. She felt herself hold her breath as he turned his head in her direction. All at once, his eyes met hers, and her heart stopped when she saw the guilt and sorrow that was haunting him. The whirl of activity around her seemed to slow, and in her mind, she saw herself walking across the room, holding his gaze the entire time, and watching a smile—that irresistible, magnetic smile that had captured her heart over a year ago-spread across his face as he realized their son was safe and sound. He would meet her halfway, folding the two of them in his strong arms. It seemed **so** real-she could feel his warm lips pressed against her forehead as she leaned her head on his chest, relishing the feeling of happiness and security as she inhaled the scent of his leather…

"ARMAND!" Louis suddenly shrieked, causing Anne to be rudely jolted out of her reverie. He had been nervously pacing back and forth, working himself up into the neurotic state that always caused his advisors to cringe. "Where is he?" he screamed. "Where is the Cardinal? Is no one ready to serve his King tonight? I have a-" his eyes filled, and he blinked back tears as his voice caught, "—a brave man, one who took a bullet to save my son, lying bleeding to death, and no one cares! NO ONE! And where is my physician? He was entirely useless throughout Anne's pregnancy! I swear the man lies idle all day long. If he is not found in five minutes, he will spend the rest of his life in the Chatelet!"

Treville stepped cautiously into the room, placing a protective hand on Aramis' shoulder.

"Your majesty?" he inquired calmly. "Might I have a word?"

"Of course, Treville, of course," the King said, his eyes again filling as his voice cracked. "Your loyalty and service put the rest of them to shame!"

"Here is one of the men who saved your son. I believe you are acquainted with Aramis? He and Athos, who is wounded, engaged the criminals fearlessly, without a thought for their own safety."

The King looked at Aramis with sympathy. He was perceptive enough to see the man's distress, and was certain he knew why the musketeer was so terribly upset. He approached the musketeer and laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Do not torment yourself. You have done well, Aramis. It is not your fault you could not protect your friend. He put himself at great risk to save my son. Perhaps one day you too will have the chance to be the hero."

Aramis was rendered speechless as his stomach turned. He fought the incredible urge to hit the man in front of him-this ridiculous, self-centred, childish man who was proclaiming to the world it was that he who had produced the beautiful child in Anne's arms_. Stop it! You know well that is the way it has to be, _his mind screamed at him_. It is the __**only **__way your son and Anne will remain safe_. Nevertheless, the thought of his child being held proudly by Louis made Aramis almost wild with jealousy. _This man has all of France, he has Anne, and __**now **__he has to have my son as well?_

At that point, the Cardinal finally strode in, weaving slightly as he clutched at his skullcap. He had obviously dressed hastily, and his usual careful grooming was absent. "Forgive me, your Majesty. I just returned to my quarters," his speech slurred slightly, "from-" he seemed to go blank, fumbling for his words, "saying-no, **celebrating** Mass, and the joyous birth of our dear Lord-at one of the cloistered convents." He appeared confused for a moment, then plunged ahead. "The Mass having occurred at the convent, to be clear, not the birth of the Lord-and I was shocked-absolutely shocked-to hear what had happened." He finally seemed to collect his thoughts, and blurted out somewhat awkwardly, "Thank God the Dauphin is safe!" Treville stared at him, unable to believe what he was seeing. The Cardinal was in the presence of the King, and he was most definitely not sober. He suspected Richelieu had been celebrating the birth of the Saviour not at Mass with a group of cloistered nuns, but in front of a fire with his mistress and a bottle of wine.

"Cardinal!" The King's voice, higher and more strident than usual, caused the room to turn to fall eerily silent. "You have neglected your duty. I'm disappointed, frankly." The petulant, rather than angry, expression on his face showed his mood was taking another unpredictable turn. "But now that you're finally here, I have a question for you. This gallant musketeer—this Athos-he has saved my son from a terrible fate. He may not survive, but if he does—"the King's voice choked—"I want him added to the record as another godfather to my son."

Aramis, who had furtively stolen another glance at Anne and the baby, whipped his head around, his face drained of all colour. _Of course Athos is a hero, and he has been gravely injured in service to the crown-but I would trade places with him __**in a second**__ for a chance to be that special of a person in my son's life._

Richelieu was taken aback. "Your Majesty, the christening has already taken place. It is just not possible. It-it would be highly irregular."

The King gave him a cold stare. "I find the fact that you were not here when I needed you highly irregular. Do not tell me you cannot fulfil such a simple request from your King. After all, you supposedly **are** the most powerful member of the clergy in France." He turned to leave, then looked back. He was silent for an instant, then spoke in a low, dangerous voice that carried an unspoken warning. "Or is that not true anymore, Cardinal?"

"I'm sure something can be arranged, your Majesty," replied Richelieu uneasily. As the King swept out of the room, the Cardinal called after him in a tone that aimed for confidence but came closer to desperation as his voice rose progressively. "I'll write to Rome straightaway. I can make it happen! I know I can! Your Majesty!"

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The chamber Athos was lying in was sparsely furnished, having been cleared out in order for the palace staff to clean in preparation for the onslaught of guests expected for the traditional ball on New Year's Eve. The musketeer lay on the bed, covered in sweat, his breathing shallow. Aramis had supervised his transport down the hall, then carefully cleansed and dressed the wound as best he could. However, the bleeding continued, and this worried Aramis. When Treville finally appeared, Aramis breathed a sigh of relief, sure that the Captain had managed to find a physician.

He strode quickly to the door to greet his leader. "Captain! Thank God you found the doctor!" Gratitude shone from his face as he clutched Treville's arm. "I knew if anyone could do it, it would be you." He was puzzled when Treville gave him an uncomfortable, apologetic look. The captain cleared his throat, and said quietly, "I am sorry, Aramis, but there is none to be found at this hour on Christmas Eve. I have found an apothecary, however, who is ready to help."

"An apothecary? But Athos needs the best care….and he needs it now!" Aramis' words tumbled out in panic, but then he checked himself. _There are many healers who are skilled and are not medical doctors. I am one. This man may prove to be experienced. I should not dismiss him outright._ At that moment, Treville stepped aside to admit a young woman wearing a simple brown cloak, a battered leather satchel held firmly to her side. She slipped in without a sound, and went straight to the still form on the bed. She quickly shed her cloak and tossed it over a chair, then turned to Athos. She observed him thoughtfully, projecting an air of quiet assurance as her hand gently smoothed back the damp hair on his fevered brow.

Aramis turned to Treville, his eyes uncertain. "A female apothecary? And she is-so young." The captain caught his arm and gave him a look that his subordinate knew meant he was more than sure of his decision. "I have confidence in her." He gazed at the young woman, who had folded back the blanket neatly to examine her patient.

"But-why?" asked Aramis, growing more uneasy by the minute.

Treville turned to him and spoke bluntly. "For two reasons. The first one is that she is our only hope at the moment. The second one is admittedly just a feeling-but nevertheless, there is something about her that—well, that reminds me of him."

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Charlotte's eyes were drawn to the musketeer's face, and her hand reached out instinctively to push back the hair that was slicked against his forehead. His hair was a rather nondescript shade of brown, but it was thick and healthy, indicating good nutrition at the garrison. That was definitely a plus. Gravely injured patients who had been properly nourished had a distinct advantage over those who had not. Her light fingers traced the edge of his jaw, his beard grazing her skin in a way that was not unpleasant. He was not young, but not old either. Tiny laugh lines around his eyes hinted at a sense of good humour that was marked by dry, clever comments rather than uproarious laughter. Those lines served as a contrast to his forehead, which was marked here and there by furrows that bespoke a healthy share of sorrow and worry throughout the recent years. Yet something about the set of his jaw, even in sleep, told her there was an underlying gentleness in his soul that he did not often display openly. This was a good man, she decided.

Folding back the covers, Charlotte spoke to him softly, anticipating he would flinch from the cold. "Monsieur, you have been brave, and you have done your duty well. Now it is time for me to go to work and for you to heal. I am called Charlotte, and I will make you more comfortable shortly. But first, I have to examine your wound, so I apologize for any discomfort.

"Do what you have to do," came a barely audible whisper.

Charlotte glanced up sharply. She had thought he was still unconscious, but was nonetheless in the habit of speaking to all of her patients when she laid hands on them, even if they appeared entirely unresponsive. Her father's words came back to her. _We cannot rule out that such a person can hear our words. Kind, gentle speech can lower the heart rate and relax the patient. _As she unwrapped the bandage around his left shoulder, she saw it had been placed with great care, and gave a prayer of thanks for whomever had done so.

Laying him bare to the waist to examine him further, Charlotte let her gaze sweep across his chest. He was lean, with sinewy muscle that told of a lifetime of sword fighting, and was undeniably more physically attractive than most of the patients she treated. Her mind travelled back to the one time she had inadvertently seen Michel shirtless when she had walked in on him changing his shirt in the supply room. His torso was heavily muscled in a way that was almost aggressive, and he had made a point showing it off when he caught her embarrassed glance. She knew some women might have found that irresistible, but she found herself thinking that the man lying in front of her compared more than favourably. His smooth skin was marred, however, by a large ugly bruise that spread across his left ribcage, and a significant amount of swelling had already begun in that area. She suspected that he had broken a rib or two.

"Who are you?" he croaked, wincing as she probed his ribs.

"I am Charlotte Gaillard, Monsieur. I work with my father in his apothecary shop several streets from the garrison. Your captain came to find my father to help you, but Papa was called away to attend to a patient earlier this evening." He opened his eyes, and she gave him a comforting smile, taking his hand in hers. "So here I am." His eyes were a striking, soulful shade of blue-grey, and he peered up at her with a look of distress that made her heart twist. It was as if he was baring not only his body, but his soul to her-and his next words seemed to confirm her thoughts.

"I have often thought I was ready to die," he gasped, and swallowed, his throat once again incredibly dry. Dark lashes fluttered against his cheek as his eyes slowly closed again, and he groaned in pain. "But now, I am not so sure."

**Another somewhat cruel ending...I love Athos so much...the angst, the suffering...the emotions were strong on this one. And who is reading this that doesn't envy Charlotte? *sits on hands***


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter IX...in which Athos suffers a bit more (not quite done with him yet), but our OC is on hand to provide treatment...and ultimately comfort. And Annamis shippers...the latter part of the chapter is for you. **

CHAPTER IX

Charlotte sat by the bedside in a straight-backed chair that was entirely too uncomfortable, the candle on the table burning down slowly. Aramis had hovered around her for a short time, but had finally left when she had suggested gently that he might benefit from a period of rest. He had seemed relieved to be dismissed, but agreed only on the condition that he return early in the morning. Her body ached with fatigue, but she believed she had finally succeeded in stanching the flow of blood from Athos' shoulder. It had been a struggle, and she had had to resort to using an instrument she hated—the cautery iron, which brutally burnt the flesh to stop the bleeding. As Charlotte had held the squat wooden handle of the slim metal rod, gingerly heating the actual cautery end in the fire, she had steeled herself for the task. When the small half-circle at the end of the rod was finally glowing red, she had pulled it out of the flames and carefully walked over to the bed. The pain would be excruciating, and she had prepared Athos by coaxing him to drink a sedative laced with a small amount of opium, the latter serving to act as a painkiller.

Even with this pre-treatment, she had been careful to perch on the side of the bed and pin down his arm with her knee before beginning. She had also called in two of the footman to help hold the injured man, knowing she could never hope to restrain him on her own. This foresight was the only thing that prevented her from being thrown onto the floor when she applied the iron to his shoulder, releasing the nauseating smell of burnt skin into the room. Athos may have been critically injured, but he was still incredibly strong. His anguished scream seemed to last forever, but when she thought about it later, she realized it was probably just a little longer than the 15 seconds she held the iron in place.

After Athos had been given another dose of the opium mixture, she had dressed the wound carefully with the soothing ointment she had mixed for the first time yesterday. One of the elderly surgeons that frequented the shop, a man by the name of Martin Beauchene, was in the habit of chatting companionably with her while she worked to prepare his order. In the course of one conversation, he had told her about the treatment for battle wounds that he had learned years ago from the famous military surgeon, Ambrose Paré. Martin had described to her in detail the minor adjustments to the recipe for the ointment that he had made over the years, and had been gratified by her interest. Charlotte always enjoyed talking to Martin. He was a kind man, but as he had often treated the destitute throughout his career, accepting only what they felt they could pay, he was not a rich one. Although he was semi-retired, he volunteered his services at one of the charity hospitals in the city in exchange for room and board. Michel had realized quickly that the surgeon was unlikely to ever be a large source of income for the shop, and usually ignored him when he came in, leaving Charlotte to wait on him.

At Martin's last visit, she had greeted him cheerfully, and politely asked him how his latest adjustment to the ointment was faring in trials on patients. The old man had sighed. "It is proving very useful on knife wounds, but for some reason has not been as much of a success with bullet wounds." Charlotte, who had been thinking about his treatment a great deal, suggested he consider an alteration in the amount of one of the ingredients. The surgeon had thought the idea a good one, but regretfully told her that he did not have the money to pay for the additional purchase. Leaning over the counter and lowering her voice so Michel did not hear, Charlotte had whispered conspiratorially, "I could give you the additional amounts for free, on a trial basis. If you think it will benefit patients, why wait? You can pay me back when you have the money."

The old man had given her a keen look, followed by a grateful smile. "You have the soul of a healer, my dear. As you are taking a chance on extending me credit, I will be happy to share the recipe with you."

"That is not necessary!" protested Charlotte. "I did not make the offer in order to make you feel so obliged."

The surgeon had rested his elbows on the counter and whispered back to her with a secretive grin, "I realize that. That is why I am proposing it."

Charlotte desperately hoped she had guessed correctly in altering the ingredients. Athos had quieted somewhat over the last thirty minutes, and she took that as a good sign. Over the preceding hour, he had been restless, plucking at the covers and mumbling intermittently. She had caught several names, and assumed they were compatriots of his. One name, "D'Artagnan," was repeated several times, and she supposed that might be his closest friend. Another name, "Anne," he had called out brokenly at one point, almost sobbing, and it had sent a chill up her spine as she wondered if this woman was a current or former love.

After a time, she had taken his hand in hers again, and placed her other hand on his chest, rubbing in small circles to try to offer him some comfort. His eyes had blazed open for a moment, and he had seized her arm, regarding her with such intensity that it had taken her breath away. "Am I there? Am I?" Athos had cried out, his voice confused and desperate.

"You are safe, Monsieur," she had replied softly, "Be at ease."

"Tell me!" he had tried to raise up off of the bed, then fallen back with a cry of agony. "Am I there or not?"

"I am not sure what you mean, Monsieur," she said quickly, trying to soothe him. "What place are you referring to?"

"Hell," he had whispered, then closed his eyes and lapsed back into unconsciousness.

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Aramis had instinctively turned to the refuge he habitually sought when his soul was troubled, and was kneeling in the palace chapel at a small side altar tucked away in a recessed alcove. A marble statue of the Virgin Mary, holding the infant Jesus adoringly in her lap, was the focus of his gaze. The chapel was bathed in candlelight, highlighting the exhaustion on the musketeer's face. His hand reflexively reached for the cross around his neck that Anne had given him, and he brought it to his lips. "What have I done?" he whispered, lowering his head in shame.

"You have done what a father who loves his child and its mother more than life itself would do," came a soft voice from behind him.

He whirled and sucked in his breath when he saw Anne standing in front of him. She was dressed in a sky blue dressing grown, the cuffs embroidered in silver. Her golden hair flowed over her shoulders. Even with her reddened eyes, Aramis thought she looked beautiful. Breathtakingly beautiful. Rising slowly, he felt his hands begin to shake. The queen reached for them, wrapping her small warm fingers around his cold palms.

"I failed," he choked. "I failed miserably. Those men gained entrance to the building under my watch, and were a heartbeat away from taking our son away from us forever."

"But you stopped them," she interjected firmly. "No matter what the King thinks, I am guessing that you had as key a role in the rescue as Athos."

"But I also had a key role in the near kidnapping…"

"Stop! Please! Stop!" Anne cried out, her voice pained and trembling. "We have only a brief moment. I told my ladies I was just coming to offer a quick prayer of thanksgiving. If I am gone for more than ten minutes, they will come looking for me."

Aramis nodded in understanding, and pulled her into his arms, kissing her on the forehead, then resting his head on top of hers.

"I dreamt about this moment," she whispered. "Just last night, I dreamt I was in your arms." She began to cry, her already swollen eyes almost devoid of tears.

"Shhh," said Aramis softly, taking her lovely face in his hands and stroking her cheek gently with his thumb. _I want to burn every second of this moment into my memory_. "Please, Anne, do not spend these precious minutes grieving what can never happen. Let us talk about our child. He is a very handsome boy. Appears to take after his father." He grinned, trying to lighten the mood despite the conflicting emotions raging inside him.

Anne laughed through her tears, and tilted her face up. "Kiss me," she pleaded. "Just one more time."

"My Queen…" Aramis replied hoarsely, his eyes uncertain, yet yearning. "I do not think that would be wise."

"Please," she whispered, her body melting into his. Resistance dissolving, he could do nothing but comply. And when his lips met hers, his brain dimly realized something that his body was refusing to recognize. He had once again made a mistake.

**Next time-things get more interesting for Athos and Charlotte, and Anne and Aramis make a decision. Let me know your opinion-curious to hear what you think...**


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter X..in which painkillers reveal a somewhat different side to Athos, and Anne makes a troubling discovery.**

CHAPTER X

Several hours later, Athos stirred, and looked up to see Charlotte sitting by the bedside.

"Who are you?" he asked fuzzily.

"Don't tell me you don't remember my name," she said lightly.

A tired sigh came from the pillows. "I believe I may have been a bit distracted over the past several hours." He shifted slightly, and Charlotte reproved him as she rose to inspect his shoulder. "Don't wiggle like that, or I shall have to restrain you."

His brain still dull, he heard himself ask, "Is that something you do often to men you have at your mercy?"

If Michel had inquired the same of Charlotte, she would have found it offensive. Athos still looked dazed, and the words had come out of his mouth innocent of the double entendre.

Perhaps it was the sleep deprivation, but Charlotte, who had an impish sense of humour, found herself giving him a seductive look as she murmured huskily, "Monsieur, I am not that kind of girl."

His chest rumbled under her hand in silent laughter, and she saw a slight curve of his mouth that was paired with a spreading pinkish tinge to his face. _I made him blush—that's a good sign. His thinking is clear enough to cause him to dimly sense embarrassment, and enough blood is circulating to turn his face a colour other than deadly pale._

He coughed, grimacing a bit, and gratefully accepted her aid in drinking some small sips of water. She slid her hand behind him and eased him forward a bit, the sleek muscles of his back sliding under her arm.

_She is an attractive woman-that auburn hair shines like copper mixed with a hint of gold... and her sense of humour is keen. I wonder what it would be like to have those soft, gentle hands touch me in a way that was other than professional_, thought Athos idly as her hand glided across his back, not realizing he was staring at Charlotte in a way that was making her blush in return.

As she settled him back against the pillows, he cleared his throat, and when he next spoke, his voice seemed to be returning to normal. In response, the colour on Charlotte's face deepened noticeably. _God, what a voice_. It was low, rich, and warm-in short, incredibly mesmerizing.

"Nevertheless," he replied in a wry tone, his speech slurring just a bit, "the fact remains that we have apparently spent the night together in a room with very little furnishings other than this huge bed. Perhaps we should be on a first name basis, if for no other reason than to go along with the script for the indecent scene that will likely be assumed to have occurred here."

An amused smile flitted across Charlotte's face. _He is flirting with me, and he is not even aware of it. I doubt he would be saying any of this if his thinking were clear. The opium has definitely affected his brain._

"Charlotte Gaillard. Pleased to meet you." She took his right hand and squeezed it lightly.

"Athos, of the King's Musketeers. I am in your debt, Mademoiselle Charlotte." He brought her hand to his lips, and kissed it softly. "Greatly in your debt."

At that moment, the door flew open, and a pompous-looking, rather portly man stood in the doorway, holding a black medical bag, the Cardinal hovering behind him. "What is the meaning of this?" the man thundered. "Who is this woman, and why is she in my patient's room?"

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Aramis had finally pulled away from Anne, forcing himself to ignore the rising wave of desire that threatened to be his downfall once again. "This cannot happen," he said, his voice trembling.

"Yes, it can," Anne insisted, her voice thin and desperate. "We will be careful—so careful that no one will have any idea."

"If we continue along this path, we are doomed—and our son is doomed. And I will not allow that to happen. Anne, think of the baby. Would you not give your life for him?"

"Of course! You know I would!" she blurted out.

"So would I. And that is what we **must** do…our lives will be given to him, rather than to each other. We must put our own feelings aside, my love, or he will certainly pay the price."

Anne averted her eyes, pure misery flooding into her body. She finally nodded reluctantly, and took in a deep, agonizing breath. "I swear this is the hardest thing I will ever do in my life. But know this always, Aramis-every time I look at our son, I think of you with love." With one last quick kiss on his cheek, she put her hand over her mouth to stifle the choking sob rising in her throat and vanished, her steps lightly ascending the staircase.

Emerging into her sitting room, she glanced up to see Catherine and Marie, her two ladies-in-waiting, exchanging concerned looks at the distress on her face. "Your Majesty, you have had a very emotional day. Perhaps you should go to sleep,' murmured Catherine.

"Yes, I—believe I will," she said, sniffling a bit as she tried to collect herself. "The visit to the chapel has overwhelmed me. I am so grateful for God's grace in restoring my son to me. Good night, and Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," they said in unison, glad to hear their gentle queen agreeing to try to rest.

Entering her bedchamber, Anne closed the door softly, and went to the bed, sitting down and reaching for her prayer book. She was indeed grateful for the grace of God, but since she had not gotten around to giving any actual thanks in the chapel, she intended to do so now. As she opened the well-thumbed book, a note fell into her lap. As she opened it and read the words, written in an unfamiliar hand, her blood ran cold. _You really should be more careful. After all, I know the truth._

**Next up-Athos comes to Charlotte's defense, and Aramis is able to put his sorrow to the side for a moment when he becomes intrigued by Athos' behaviour.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter XI..in which Charlotte and Athos come up against the Cardinal, and Aramis finds something to distract him from the pain of his last meeting with Anne.**

CHAPTER XI

Charlotte stood up and smoothed her skirts, then addressed the physician politely. "I am Charlotte Gaillard, Monsieur, and my father is an apothecary, with a shop near-"

He cut her off, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "**Her father** is an apothecary. I am sure a course of learning by osmosis has been most instructive." Swivelling his head to focus his small, beady eyes on Richelieu, he shot him a disparaging look. "Cardinal, your standards for medical care at the palace are slipping dramatically."

Then turning his focus back to Charlotte, the enraged doctor snarled, "You have broken the law by tending to this man. Not only are you not a physician, you do not even have the crude training of a licensed apothecary. And on top of all this, you are a woman! You have no business passing yourself off as a person possessing **any** degree of medical knowledge." He looked at her scornfully, then muttered, "I doubt you can even read." Turning to his companion, he addressed him respectfully. "Cardinal, please be so kind as to summon the guard to have this troublesome woman arrested, while I prepare the patient to be bled." The Cardinal nodded, exiting the room without delay.

"For God's sake, no!" cried Charlotte in dismay. "He has already lost a great deal of blood, and cannot afford to lose more to your leeches!"

"Shut up, you ignorant girl!" snapped the physician. "And get out of this room immediately, before you do this man any more harm! You can wait in the hallway for the guards."

"Mademoiselle Gaillard will not move an inch," came the calm, measured voice from the bed. "And as for you, sir, you will comport yourself like a gentleman, and treat her with the respect she deserves. I am the one being cared for, and she has done well by me. I require no additional treatment at this time."

"What do you know about medical care, musketeer?" sneered the man.

The Cardinal re-entered the room just in time to hear this last exchange. "Doctor Ambrose, I think it is obvious there has been some witchcraft at work here." He turned to give Charlotte a menacing look, then began to walk around her slowly. "I perceive the smell of burnt flesh in the air." Eyeing her warily, as one would a wild animal frothing at the mouth, he continued to circle her. "This woman—she disturbs me greatly." He pointed his finger accusingly at Charlotte, who willed herself to stand tranquilly in place despite the overwhelming fear she felt at having provoked this powerful man. "Yes, this is a **dangerous** woman—-a woman who plainly dabbles in herbs and spells. She has likely pumped this poor musketeer full of some potion so she can perform some kind of human sacrifice. Or perhaps her intention was to have her way with him, to sate her wanton desires. After all," he said with a leer, "Athos **was **bare to at least the waist when we came in."

"ENOUGH!" Athos' voice rang out, and he struggled up in bed, eyes burning with indignation. "You will **not** besmirch this woman's reputation. With all due respect, Cardinal, you are not the only man in this room who serves His Majesty. Until I have an order from the King himself, Mademoiselle Gaillard stays in this room."

The Cardinal was somewhat taken back, and found himself momentarily at a loss for words.

"I perceive getting that order may present a bit of a problem, Cardinal?" Athos' voice became more cold and detached. "Unless of course, you are not afraid to have the King learn why it took you until four o'clock in the morning to locate his physician, who is supposed to be accessible at all times."

The Cardinal gave Athos a look of hatred, and turned to leave. As he passed by Charlotte, he muttered malevolently, "Do not suppose this is the last of the matter, Mademoiselle. You have made me look the fool, and I cannot allow that. You would do well to remember that this musketeer cannot protect you forever."

Sweeping out of the room, Richelieu vanished, the physician following. In their wake, door slammed shut, the frame vibrating. Charlotte collapsed on the chair next to the bed, weak with relief. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then opened them to find Athos slumped back against the pillows, having spent a good deal of his flagging energy. Concerned, she sprang up and perched on the side of the bed to feel his forehead.

"I am afraid you have tired yourself, Monsieur Athos. But I must admit, you play the role of the gallant gentleman very well. The way you spoke to the Cardinal—it was so compelling—it was as if you were a Comte or a Duke. You were not afraid at all."

Athos allowed himself a small smile at the irony in her comment, then replied with a hint of emotion in his voice.

"Perhaps I am a good actor. But I think it more likely that witnessing the injustice of the Cardinal's accusations against you-" his eyes closed for a moment in fatigue, then opened slowly, a flash of anger once again visible, "-gave me a strength of spirit that I did not think I possessed in this weakened state. You are kind and gentle, Mademoiselle, and no one should ever talk to you in that fashion." Eyelids drooping, he sighed and shifted slightly, trying to ease the pain in his shoulder that had flared up again.

Charlotte's heart filled with gratitude. This was clearly a man of honour. Later that evening, she would lie in bed and wonder exactly what had caused her to do what she did next, as it was entirely out of character for her. Upon reflection, she attributed it to still feeling a bit giddy from the adrenaline rush of her narrow escape. Eyes dancing, she impulsively leaned over and whispered in his ear as his breathing became slower and more regular, "It is lucky for me, then, that you do not remember me taking my pleasure from you as part of my dark campaign to satiate my wanton desires."

His eyes flew open, and she began to laugh hysterically. "I'm sorry, that was cruel of me, but I could not resist." _After all, the sedative has almost worn off, and I doubt we will be engaging in this sort of verbal repartee again. That is, if we ever meet again in the future_. _It is not likely I will be crossing paths with a musketeer in my everyday life._ His arm shot out and gripped hers, and she saw a spark of mischief in his magnetic gaze, paired with an expression of such smouldering intensity that caused it her heart to skip a beat.

"I knew you were teasing," he said huskily, his voice becoming a bit weaker, but retaining the mesmerizing timbre that made her feel as if her insides were turning to liquid. "But turnabout is fair play, and you can expect I will exact my revenge on you, Mademoiselle. Not today, not tomorrow, but sometime when you least expect it. And I will make sure it will not be so easy for you to know you are being told a tale. After all," he lowered his voice to an even more seductive register, offering her a provocative smile, "you should have realized that had you used me in such a fashion, I would have surely remembered it."

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When Aramis returned at dawn, he found Athos much improved, and his heart lifted. He perceived Charlotte's exhaustion, and spoke to her kindly. "I am very grateful for your care, Mademoiselle, and you need some well-deserved rest. May I offer you an escort home?"

"No, thank you," replied Charlotte with a smile. "I will enjoy the walk, and the streets will be quiet on Christmas Day." She turned to Athos. "If it is permitted, I will return to check on your wound in the morning."

"I will make sure you are admitted to the palace," said Aramis firmly. "In fact, I will escort you from your shop. Eight o'clock tomorrow?"

She nodded her thanks. "Your courtesy is much appreciated, Monsieur-"

"Aramis," he bowed, aghast that he had not given his name. "I beg your pardon for my rudeness in failing to introduce myself."

"You had other things on your mind last night," replied Charlotte easily. "It is of no consequence." Turning to the bed, she took Athos' hand in hers, and admonished him teasingly, "Now behave yourself, Monsieur, or I will have to be stern with you when I return."

His eyes crinkled in amusement as he graciously inclined his head. "I will do my best to earn your approval, Mademoiselle."

Releasing his hand reluctantly, she fastened her cloak, picked up her satchel, and left the room, Athos' gaze following her. As she closed the door, Aramis turned to look at his comrade, a sly grin spreading across his face. "So, my friend, it appears you have been doing more in my absence than recovering from a life-threatening bullet wound."

Athos rolled his eyes, and replied in a tone that indicated he was more than done with the topic. "I have no idea what you are referring to. Now, if you will be so kind, I would appreciate some peace and quiet."

"You **are** taken with her," Aramis whooped, laughing in delight as he envisioned the fun he, Porthos, and D'Artagnan would have harassing Athos about this woman. "Even better, I do believe she fancies you." Athos shook his head adamantly, but Aramis only snickered. "Do not try to persuade me otherwise, Athos. I know you better than you know yourself, and you are smitten."

"I will smite **you** if this conversation continues," muttered Athos darkly. To his dismay, this only served to make Aramis laugh harder.

"Oh, my God, D'Artagnan—Porthos," he gasped, holding his side as he wiped his eyes. "I cannot wait to tell them."

**Next time...Milady is back, and she is doing what she does best...namely, evil acts committed under cover of darkness...**

**On second thought, does she ever really restrict herself to a certain time of day?**


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter XII...in which Milady is keen to know what happened at the palace after she fled from Athos, and Charlotte has a disturbing encounter with Michel.**

CHAPTER XII

Several hours before, the physician had trudged back to his home, dejected and cursing his own stupidity. He had made the fatal error of deciding to sleep at his brother's house after a long Christmas Eve feast, judging that the odds his services would be called upon by the King were next to nil. The Red Guards had not thought to search his relations' homes until early morning, and he had been aghast to find out that a hunt for him had been ongoing for several hours. He could still feel the sting of the Cardinal's wrath, for he had received a furious upbraiding the minute they had left the east wing. His disquiet only increased when a hooded figure in a long, dark gown stepped out from a recessed doorway, her breath misting in the air.

"Good evening, Dr. Ambrose," Milady de Winter greeted him, eyeing him speculatively.

"I believe it is now morning," replied the man grumpily. "What do you want with me?"

"Is that any way to talk to the woman who would likely offer you a healthy reward for a report of what went on at the palace tonight? Do tell what happened."

"I would expect to be compensated well," sniffed the doctor, narrowing his eyes. "What sum did you have in mind?"

"Well," murmured Milady silkily, "I expect I could manage 100 livres."

The man's eyes bulged for an instant, before he checked himself and blurted out, "120."

"My, my, doctor. You have grown greedy in the past few months," her voice hardened. "100 livres, take it or leave it."

The doctor sighed in annoyance, and nodded reluctantly. "What do you want to know?"

"I am assuming someone was injured, perhaps seriously. Who was it?"

"One of the musketeers, a man named Athos," replied the doctor in a bored voice. "What else?"

Ignoring him, Milady mused out loud, her green eyes showing her intrigue. "Really? Athos?" her voice dropped. "That, I did not expect," she muttered. She looked at the physician keenly. "What did you see when you tended to him?"

"Actually, I did not even get a chance to examine him."

"Why not?" asked Milady sharply. "Is he dead?"

"No, not at all," said the physician caustically. "And it's a wonder he is not, for the person who saw to his wounds was a woman who claimed to be some sort of herbalist."

"A woman?" echoed Milady, her thoughts racing. "Some old hag, perhaps from the gypsy caravan outside the city gates?"

"Not exactly," replied the man evasively. "But why does it matter? For God's sake, old or young, who cares?"

"**I** care," snapped Milady, "And I am paying you for information, not generalities. Now give me a little more to work with, or I walk away now."

"Her name was Gaillard. Charlotte Gaillard. Her father owns an apothecary shop near the garrison."

"Describe her to me," came the order.

He sighed. _At this rate I will be interrogated for another hour. I just want to go home and sleep._ However, he strove to make his description accurate, in order to prevent tiresome additional questions. "She was young, perhaps early twenties?"

"What did she look like?" pressed Milady.

"I'm trying to tell you that," he retorted in exasperation, earning him a glare. However, she let him continue. "Slim, about 5 foot, 7 inches…fair, with brown eyes and long auburn hair. I'd say she was quite attractive, although her attitude left something to be desired."

"Brown eyes, auburn hair?" repeated Milady. "Not his type," she murmured in satisfaction, well knowing that her emerald eyes and dark, lustrous hair had served her well in her seduction of Athos.

"I would not presume that, Milady," replied the doctor shrewdly, realizing he had hit on something of interest, and hoping to regain her good favour. "They seemed to have some sort of—I suppose you would call it chemistry."

"And what does that mean?" she inquired acidly.

"Perhaps it was the effects of the painkillers, but he seemed—taken with her. His eyes did not leave her the whole time I was there. Although admittedly, that was not very long."

"Did she seem to return his feelings?"

"I am not an expert on romantic intrigue," he protested.

"Then perhaps," she murmured slowly, pulling out her dagger and holding it to his neck, "I should give you some encouragement."

Gasping in fear, he blurted out, "I would say-yes. When we entered the room, he had her hand to his lips, and she seemed-captivated."

Milady cursed softly. "I do not need this additional problem right now."

"What?" choked out the physician. "Do you think she will be an obstacle for you?"

"Oh no," replied Milady sweetly as she pulled her pistol out from the folds of her gown and shot him coolly in the chest. "I was referring to you." He fell to the ground with a heavy thud. Smiling complacently, Milady de Winter tucked her weapons into the folds of her gown, and stepped over his lifeless body, lifting her skirts high to avoid the pool of blood gathering around him.

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As the sun rose, Charlotte unlocked the door to the apothecary and stepped inside, breathing deeply the reassuring smell of drying herbs. She closed the door, and hung up her cloak, starting when an angry voice came from across the room.

"Care to explain where you have been?" challenged Michel in an ugly tone.

She gave him a dismissive look. "I do not answer to you. I will speak with my father."

Moving to the stairs, she was stopped short when he neatly blocked her path. "You are wrong. You **will** answer to me when I have to sit up with your distraught father for half the night." Charlotte smelled a heavy dose of alcohol on his breath, and stepped back.

"You are drunk," she replied evenly. "I left a note, pinned to the middle of the door. Perhaps **someone** may have taken it down in order to upset my father?"

"A bit of a paranoid remark, don't you think?" asked Michel coldly. "I can assure you that I made a thorough and exhaustive search while your father spoke with the neighbours, and sadly," he smirked, "there was no note to be found. Someone did tell us, though, that a man in the uniform of the Musketeers had come to the shop, and you left in a quite a hurry with him on his horse." He leaned uncomfortably close to her, crowding her against the wall. "It did cross my mind that perhaps you forgot to leave word for your father in your haste to be off with your lover." He drew out the last word, relishing her discomfort.

The next instant, one of his hands had snaked up to her face, and he gripped her chin firmly. "Charlotte, Charlotte" he said in a reproachful, sinister voice. "What am I going to do with you? You will ruin your reputation, and then who will marry a woman everyone thinks is a whore? Hmm?" He lowered his mouth to her ear. "I'll tell you," he whispered. "Me. After all, whores are right up my alley." This seemed to strike him as humorous, and he roared with laughter. Charlotte took advantage of the distraction to push past him, and flew up the stairs to the quarters she and her father shared, banging the door behind her and sliding the bolt. She pressed her back against the door, wishing heartily that she was sitting next to Athos' bed in the candlelight, nodding away in the straight-backed chair that was entirely too uncomfortable.

**I'm back at work today...would much rather be home brainstorming on plot lines. It has been heaven having a free week of food, fun, family, and writing, but regular daily life has the annoying habit of resurfacing. I plan to keep up with regular updates (have some fun ideas percolating in my brain...), but can't promise it'll continue to be anywhere near daily! ****On the bright side, series 2 starts on Friday night! **

**Next time-Anne does some thinking, and Aramis and Porthos become acquainted with Michel.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter XIII...in which Anne has a question for Constance, and Aramis and Porthos arrive to escort Charlotte to the palace.**

**CHAPTER XIII**

The next morning, Anne sat in the nursery, rocking her child to sleep. Since she had become a mother, she had found that there was nothing she loved more than holding her baby and inhaling his delicious scent as he fell asleep on her shoulder. The pale winter sun shone into the room, casting light on her son's face as he cooed in the magical way infants do in the twilight between wakefulness and sleep. Although she appeared outwardly relaxed, Anne's mind was busy reliving the wrenching conversation she had had with Aramis that night before_. Thank God he was thinking clearly, because I most definitely was not. He was right-completely and utterly right. Even now, despite us having taken every precaution, someone knows. And the most horrifying thing about it is that I have no idea who that person could be. Athos is the only one who I am sure is aware of the fact that Aramis and I spent the night together, and I know he would go to his grave to keep that secret. _

Her thoughts were interrupted when Constance entered the room, holding a fresh armful of laundry.

Anne smiled at her, thankful for the friend who had protected her son with such ferocity.

"Good morning, Constance! You know I am always glad to see you, but whatever are you doing here? I know full well that you were in the nursery until the wee hours of the morning. Surely you did not forget that I gave you leave to enjoy the day at home with your husband?"

An odd look flitted quickly across Constance's face, then disappeared. However, it did not escape Anne's notice._ She is not happy in her marriage. _

"My husband actually had an emergency delivery to make today. Choir robes for the Christmas Day Mass at the cathedral, and he wanted to be on hand to supervise the fitting. So I decided I'd make myself useful," she concluded brightly, as if trying to convince herself to feel the happiness expected on Christmas Day."

The baby hiccupped, and snuggled against Anne's neck as she patted his back tenderly.

"By any chance," Anne inquired, trying to make her voice casual, "was anyone outside the usual staff in my rooms yesterday? Cleaners, perhaps? Or a new maid?"

Constance was instantly on alert. "I don't think so, Your Majesty, but why do you ask? Has something gone missing?"

"No, nothing like that," replied Anne in a reassuring tone. "I thought I had placed my prayer book on the left side of my bedside table yesterday morning, but I found it on the right side last night. I probably moved it and didn't even remember."

"Nothing else was disturbed?" probed Constance, choosing her words with care in order not to upset the Queen.

"No, everything is fine. I am sure I am just being forgetful. After all, I had quite a scare last night."

"Well, make sure you get some good time with that precious baby today," replied Constance in a soft voice, kissing the sleeping infant on the head as she patted Anne's shoulder comfortingly. The Queen looked up at her with gratitude. "I am so glad you accepted a position as my lady-in-waiting. I don't know what I would have done without you. Your quick thinking saved my son's life." _If only I knew where the next threat is coming from._

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Charlotte had a heart to heart talk with her father that morning, and apologized for worrying him. "I swear to you, Papa, I pinned a note right to the door, and made sure it was secure." Her father glanced at her fondly. "I am sorry I doubted you, and equally sorry I kept Michel up late." He leaned over and whispered, "He was worried about you," with a knowing smile.

Taking a deep breath, Charlotte confided in her father about her misgivings regarding the apprentice. She did not tell him all the details, but did share some of her concerns about his behaviour. "He is too aggressive, Papa," she said firmly. "It is not appropriate."

"After what you have told me, I agree," said her father, looking grave. "I will speak to him tomorrow."

Charlotte immediately felt better, and also decided that if all else failed, she would ask Aramis' advice the next day. He seemed a friendly sort, and she thought she could trust him to be discreet.

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At eight o' clock the next morning, a knock came on the door of the shop, which had not yet opened. Charlotte had been sorting herbs in the supply room, and was dismayed to see Michel dash for the door. He peered out a side window, and caught a glimpse of a blue cloak. "Ah, Charlotte," he crowed, "It appears as if your lover has returned." As he worked to unfasten the door, he called out with a heavy dose of bravado, "My name is Michel, and I want a word with you, musketeer. You have been harassing the daughter of my employer, and I do not take such actions lightly. I-"

As he threw open the door, his eyes fell on Porthos, bristling in his black leather with his hand on his sword hilt. Next to him stood Aramis, grinning and twirling a pistol in his hand. "You were saying?" Aramis asked innocently.

"I thought I heard somethin' about a challenge," growled Porthos, looking at Aramis in inquiry. "Is that what you heard?"

"Quite possibly," replied Aramis brightly. "Well, it is eight o'clock, and we haven't killed anyone yet today-why wait for lunch? After all, I always say there's no better way to start off a day than with a brawl."

Porthos shrugged in response. "I'm in. The sooner, the better. Killin' always works up an appetite." He laughed uproariously, winking at Charlotte as Michel flinched.

Aramis directed his attention back to Michel, "So, monsieur, would you prefer to take me on first? Or does my friend Porthos here strike your fancy?"

"I'm good with hand to hand combat," said Porthos, cracking his knuckles as he grinned at Michel in a way that made him look positively unhinged. "How about it?"

"I believe I hear my employer calling," replied Michel faintly, disappearing in a hasty fashion.

"Our calendar is open any time," called Aramis. "Captain Treville's garrison."

"Ask for Porthos and Aramis," added Porthos in a booming voice. "Or just ask for the two with the highest body count. They'll know who you're referrin' to."

Aramis clucked his tongue in disapproval and looked at Porthos reproachfully. "Wasn't that a little over the top?"

"You think so?" asked Porthos in mock dismay. "I thought I was goin' easy on him."

They grinned at each other, then Aramis gave Charlotte a smile. "I made sure to escort you in style this morning, Mademoiselle Charlotte. You will have a musketeer on each arm. Meet Porthos, just returned from a mission to Chartres." He leaned over to her and whispered loudly. "He looks ferocious, but he's just a big teddy bear."

Porthos gave her a sunny, disarming smile and nodded respectfully. His voice made an impression on Charlotte-for a big man, it was warm and friendly. "Pleased to meet you, Mademoiselle. Aramis speaks highly of you. We will ensure you run into no trouble at the palace."

"No trouble?" asked Aramis, disappointed. "That sounds boring."

"I said no trouble for her," grinned Porthos. "I wasn't talkin' about us. After all, Athos is probably bored silly. If we don't cause some trouble for him, we're not livin' up to our reputation."

He exchanged a knowing glance with Aramis, and they grinned at each other again, then looked at Charlotte.

It was only then that Charlotte noticed that Aramis had a bulging canvas bag slung over his shoulder. "I don't think I want to know," she said with a sigh.

Porthos and Aramis looked at each other again and laughed conspiratorially, then said in unison, "You don't.'

**Next time-more of Athos and Charlotte...**

**Glad I was able to get another chapter out before 2015!**


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter XIV...in which Charlotte returns to the palace to check on her patient, much to the delight of Aramis and Porthos.**

**CHAPTER XIV**

When they arrived at the palace, Porthos and Aramis' presence resulted in the trio being waved through the gate in no time. Charlotte's escorts strode with her confidently through the large outer courtyard to the east wing, and nodded to the musketeers on guard duty, who let them pass without a challenge. When they reached Athos' door, Aramis raised an eyebrow and looked at Porthos. "Should we knock?"

Porthos considered this for a moment, "Normally, I'd say no. But Athos may want to look his best, with the lady here and all. So give him a bit of warning."

"Fair enough," replied Aramis mischievously, then raised his voice and gave two loud thumps on the door with his fist. "Athos! Make yourself decent! Female in tow!" He then pushed the door open and promptly barged in, followed by Porthos. Charlotte, however, hung back for a moment, just in case Athos needed a moment or two to collect himself.

The injured musketeer was sitting up against the pillows, dressed in a clean white shirt. "Gentlemen." He gave Aramis a dark look. "I am glad to see your perfect manners are still intact, Aramis."

"You know me, ever the epitome of courtesy," Aramis replied with a cheery smile. Athos rolled his eyes, then turned his gaze to the towering man in black leather.

"Porthos," murmured Athos, warmth clear in his voice. "I am glad to see you, my friend. There was a point two days ago when I was not sure I would ever lay eyes on you again."

The big man reached over and hugged him a bit gingerly, being careful not to cause his friend discomfort. "Don't want to hurt that shoulder." He grinned. "I'm touched you thought of me—but you should know by now I'm not that easy to get rid of." He cuffed Athos on the ear, defusing the emotion in the room.

Charlotte chose that instant to enter, and her eyes immediately went to her patient. She was relieved to see his colour looking better, and smiled at him, a bit shy now that a day had passed since she had last seen him. "Good morning, Monsieur Athos. I am happy to see you improved."

Athos' gratitude showed in his face. "Mademoiselle Gaillard. I am fortunate to have a chance to thank you for your care."

Porthos nudged Aramis, who broke in. "Well, now that we are all reacquainted, perhaps some breakfast?" he inquired breezily. Opening his bag, he pulled out four large loaves of bread and two large bottles of wine. Three thick wheels of cheese wrapped in cloth followed, as well as a dozen sausage links.

"That's quite a bit of food," Athos remarked dryly. "Are you expecting the entire garrison?"

"Actually, Porthos and I are on our way to the stables with a late Christmas gift for the lads there. I was gracious enough to feed you first, however."

Charlotte looked at them, anxiety showing on her face. "Changing his dressing will not be a quick affair. How much time do I have?"

"All the time in the world," replied Aramis in a sly voice. It was then that Athos noticed a gleam in Aramis' eyes that he was all too familiar with, and he regarded him warily as his friend took out a pair of pewter plates and goblets.

"Porthos and I have actually already eaten, so we will let you two enjoy your repast while we head over to the stables."

Charlotte sighed in relief. "That sounds like a brilliant plan. I was afraid I'd either have to rush my exam, or delay you from your destination."

"It's no problem," replied Porthos confidently. "In fact," he shot Aramis a cunning look as his friend began to repack the bag, "I just remembered that I have several more errands I have to run—the blacksmith, the market, the cooper-care to accompany me, Aramis?"

"Of course," answered Aramis with a grin, "I am always happy to oblige you, my friend." They headed towards the door, having left Charlotte and Athos a bottle of choice wine and a spread that was more than adequate.

"But the Captain expects-"Athos called after them desperately. Something in the back of his mind told him he might have said something-not lewd—but perhaps inappropriate-to this kind, intelligent girl. _Don't leave me alone_, his panicked look said to Aramis. _I don't remember exactly what happened yesterday, and I'm not sure what to say._

In response, Aramis disappeared out the door with a smirk, pulling Porthos behind him. "Don't worry," he called airily. "Treville doesn't expect you back until tonight at least. It'll be fine. And Mademoiselle Charlotte, please don't leave before we return. Porthos and I have made it a point of honour to make sure you get home safely."

The door banged behind them, and Aramis swung the bag over his shoulder, humming a jaunty air to himself.

"I haven't seen you smile like this in weeks. You're enjoying this!" accused Porthos in a disapproving voice.

Aramis gave him a roguish look. "And you're not?"

"Hell, yes!" replied Porthos immediately. "It's the best thing ever to see Athos squirm." He grinned. "Let's head for the stables, then the tavern. I have an itch to play cards."

"But I thought you had errands?" asked Aramis, puzzled.

"I do. But that can wait. The money I'll take from the Red Guards can't. They just went off duty."

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"Would you like to eat first, or shall I change your dressing now?" asked Charlotte, wondering why she was feeling a bit nervous around this gallant man.

"Perhaps it would be better to get the pain out of the way first," grimaced Athos.

Opening her satchel, Charlotte rummaged through it. "I don't think it will be nearly as bad as yesterday, so a heavy painkiller is not required. I could give you something mild, though."

_God, no. I want to have wits about me today._ He shook his head and gave her a rueful look. "I think I will be fine without it. It will be nothing a glass of wine—or two—cannot ease afterwards."

"Very well," replied Charlotte softly. She laid out the bandages on the bed, then gave him a quizzical look. "May I inquire how you were able to don that shirt? I would have expected the wound to bleed again."

"I managed," replied Athos neutrally. "There may have been a miniscule amount of bleeding, but it was nothing significant."

She gave him a reproving look. "I hope I'm not going to find something that will make me have to lecture you."

The look on her face reminded Athos so much of his childhood nurse that he began to laugh in spite of himself.

"What's so funny?" she demanded.

"Your face," he said, curbing his mirth, but allowing himself a small smile of amusement. "It reminds of my nurse when I was a little boy. She would usually look at me that way after I had gone ahead and done something I had been expressly warned not to do."

"Well then, you probably deserved a scolding," she replied absently, furrowing her brow as she inspected his shirt in an effort to figure out how to get it off with a minimum of fuss. "Right, good arm first—can you slip that out without too much help?"

Athos gave her a sideways look, and appeared mildly offended. "If I was able to get the shirt on, I believe I can manage to get it off."

"Without any assistance?" she arched an eyebrow at him.

"I could, if I wanted to," he muttered.

"Hmm, independent. Hard-headed too," said Charlotte lightly, guiding the shirt off his shoulder, while still allowing him to do most of the work.

"I am not too old to do it myself," he said stubbornly. "Although I suppose you think might think so. You are likely ten years younger than me."

She regarded him in a speculative fashion, then replied calmly, "You are correct in thinking you are not young." For the first time in their interactions, he gave her a glare that she was sure struck fear in the hearts of the younger musketeers.

Ignoring him, she added softly, "But you are not old either. You are a man in the prime of life, Monsieur." She eased the shirt over his head and slid it carefully off his left arm.

He gave a short, bitter laugh, his mood suddenly darkening. "I think the prime of my life escaped me some time ago."

"Well, who says you cannot find it again?" inquired Charlotte matter-of-factly.

Athos regarded her with a sardonic glint in his eyes. "Hmm. Optimistic." She once again overlooked his response and proceeded to pull the bandage off his shoulder, perhaps just a tad more aggressively than necessary. He gasped in response, eyeing her with wariness. "Sadistic, too."

"If you say so, Monsieur," she replied serenely, giving him a demure smile.

**Next up..Porthos and Aramis repair to the tavern, and Athos and Charlotte have a conversation.**


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter XV...in which Aramis and Porthos allow Charlotte and Athos some time alone, but the results are not quite what they had hoped for...**

**CHAPTER XV**

"Let me get this straight," said Porthos, a sceptical look on his face. "Because I'm havin' a hard time believin' this. "You're telling me Athos gave her The Stare?"

They were sitting in a corner of a small, dusty tavern not far from the palace. Porthos made a point of coming to this particular establishment at least several times a month to play cards. The younger Red Guards were generally not very proficient, and pickings were easy. At present, the two were scouting out the competition before Porthos made his first move.

Aramis lounged in his chair, an arm thrown carelessly over the back. His picked up his mug of ale and gave Porthos a smirk. "Not just The Stare. There was a hint of The Hungry Stare."

Porthos shook his head, still dubious. "You're **sure**?"

Aramis nodded, his grin widening.

"I didn't even think he knew what that was," Porthos muttered incredulously, taking a swig from his mug.

Aramis leaned over the table and regarded him with a confidential air. "My friend, when have I ever been wrong in matters of the heart?"

Porthos grunted and gave him a derisive look. "You really don't want me to answer that. But seriously, I'm glad to see Athos showin' a bit of interest in a woman. I've barely seen him give one a glance since Ninon—and you **know** what Milady did to his head."

"Well, at some point he has to get back in the saddle," observed Aramis breezily. "Now is as good a time as any."

Porthos raised an eyebrow in doubt. "Well, maybe we should let him lead this filly around by the reins a little bit first. He's out of practice—and we don't want him to spook her."

As rain began to fall outside, Aramis looked out the window thoughtfully. "I think we can safely assume that an overly aggressive Athos is one problem that we will not have to worry about facing."

Across the square, a hooded figure skirted the edge of a building and turned down a side alley, disappearing from sight.

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Charlotte finished bandaging up Athos' shoulder, and smiled in approval. She reached for one of the bottles of wine and deftly filled both goblets. "You actually did well in protecting the wound when you were changing. It's healing up very nicely. I'll leave a jar of the ointment for Monsieur Aramis, and he should be able to dress it for you when you return to the garrison this evening." She looked up and caught Athos gazing at her, with an expression that was almost wistful.

"Tell me about how you came to be a Musketeer," she said impulsively, handing him a goblet and a plate of bread and cheese. She perched on the edge of the bed as if she were settling down for a chat with a good friend, hoping to put him at ease. Although this man was surrounded by a tight-knit group of comrades who seemed devoted to one another, she sensed that he had a thread of loneliness running through his life.

"It's not an exciting story," he responded after falling silent for a moment, his mood having imperceptibly changed. "Nothing dramatic like wanting to win fame as a swordsman, or having an insatiable lust for adventure since boyhood." He gazed out the window reflectively, watching as a cold rain began to patter on the cobblestones outside, gradually intensifying. People scurried to avoid the downpour, and large, murky puddles began to develop.

"In fact, the happiest I ever was in my life was right before my enlistment. I had a loving wi-" he paused, averting his eyes for an instant before correcting himself and continuing, "—family, and a home I where I always felt peaceful and secure. I knew every hallway and alcove like the back of my hand. As a boy, I had spent rainy afternoons with my brother Thomas building forts in the big closets. We would incessantly fight the dragons and trolls we invented, our minds always coming up with newer, and more deadly foes. We always won, of course." He looked at her and smiled, fond memories seeming to flood his mind.

"Thomas and I were rambunctiously imaginative, as boys tend to be, and these creatures had extremely elaborate family trees. They lived in mysterious, magical lairs in lonely places in the deep forest that surrounded our home. Every morning I would race my brother down the staircase to see who would get to breakfast first, as the sooner we ate, the sooner we could begin our battles." His eyes were faraway, as if he was seeing two small, laughing boys disappear down the stairs.

A moment of hesitation followed, but he seemed to make up his mind to plunge ahead. "Then one day, it all changed in an instant. Personal tragedy befell my family, and I had to get away, to strike out on a new path. I needed a new life—one with structure to it, as I was like a ship lost in a storm, with no anchor to hand. I wanted an honourable purpose to devote my life to—and the musketeers gave me that. In short, they saved my life," he said quietly.

Charlotte, sensing him becoming uncomfortable, adroitly redirected the conversation to herself. "Well, we have something in common then. A family tragedy set my life on a different path as well. I was a difficult pregnancy for my mother, and during labour, she was near death. She promised God she would dedicate my life to Him if I survived, which I obviously did. So, from birth I was trained up to head for the convent when I turned twelve."

"What happened?" asked Athos softly.

"My mother died," replied Charlotte simply. "She fell ill with a sweating sickness when I was ten, and was gone within a day."

"That must have been difficult," murmured Athos, his face sympathetic as he drank from his goblet.

"Very," admitted Charlotte. "I cried myself to sleep for days. But in a way, it opened up a whole new life for me. My father did not want his only child to leave him, and told me firmly that I could serve God just as well in apothecary work, perhaps better, than as a cloistered nun. It was freeing in one way. I had been absolutely dreading my twelfth birthday, as it would mean I would then have to go the convent to live and begin my vocation as a novice."

Continuing, she said in a low voice,"It was also very liberating to—to know that my path was no longer predetermined. It had been oppressive to have my life mapped out for me from birth_." I know exactly how that feels_, thought Athos with compassion.

She fell silent for a moment, toying with her goblet, then looked up, her brown eyes searching to make sense of her thoughts. "But in another way I felt—" she stopped, a bit hesitant. "I'm not sure you would understand. I'm not sure I understand myself."

"I have been told I am a good listener," murmured Athos reassuringly. "But I am also more than comfortable with silence. Do not feel compelled to continue if you feel it is too personal a matter."

This seemed to soothe her, and she asked, her face thoughtful, "Have you ever been to a convent?"

"I don't exactly frequent them," said Athos wryly, "but I was involved with a siege at one a year or so ago. The nuns, especially the Mother Superior, impressed me with their courage and fortitude."

"There are many remarkable women in such places," responded Charlotte quietly. "And it is one of the few places in the world where women can have a real say in their daily lives. You know, there are even a few Abbesses who run large monastic houses and rule over both men and women there. That ability to be independent, and to not have to rely on anyone for anything, appealed to me. But I had my doubts about the rest of it."

"I am not sure you would have made such a good nun," observed Athos, his eyes a bit merry.

"Because..?" she asked with an inquiring glance.

"For several reasons," he replied lightly.

"Tell me," she coaxed. "I am curious to see what conclusions you have made about my personality in such a short time."

"Well," began Athos, tilting his head and looking at her attentively. "I think you have strong beliefs, and are not afraid to challenge someone when you see injustice." He raised an eyebrow. "That might have gotten you in trouble with the head of novices, as well as the Abbess, depending on the issue involved."

"I expect you are correct on that count," replied Charlotte dryly." In fact, I had to leave the village school at eleven. The schoolmaster thought I was impertinent, and said I asked too many questions. The final straw was when we had a-well, we had a theological row over my hedgehog."

Athos gave her an amused look. "You cannot tell me that and not share the story. Am I unaware of a treatise by St. Augustine on small prickly animals of the forest?"

She laughed and coloured slightly. "Well, one day I came to school distraught because my pet hedgehog, Colette, had died. I was sad, but told Master Guillaume that I was comforted by the fact that I would see her in heaven someday. And besides, my mother was in heaven to watch over her. In response, he slapped my hand with a ruler and told me to stop spreading blasphemy. In his view, Colette was not going to go to heaven, as she did not have a soul and was not a baptized Christian. I told him in no uncertain terms that he was misinformed, as I believed there were indeed animals in heaven—and my concluding statement in this impassioned speech in defense of my hedgehog's soul was that Colette in her short life had been more of a Christian than he ever had been."

Athos began to laugh, and it was a deep, joyous laugh that made his blue eyes even more attractive, as he had finally allowed his habitual reserve to slip a bit. Charlotte guessed he had once been spirited and passionate in his approach to life, but now rarely allowed himself any pleasure. He suddenly groaned and clutched his ribs as a searing pain shot through his side. "Mademoiselle Charlotte. I believe I will require my second glass of medicinal wine. However, perhaps we should divert the conversation from the topic of why you are not cut out for the convent, as it may become-inappropriate for a man who is still healing from a grave chest wound. Besides, I think I have already presented a sound case."

She sighed and gave him a sideways glance, paired with a hint of a smile. "As you wish, Monsieur, but do not think this is the last of the matter. I intend to press you until you can demonstrate to me a better argument." She rose to reach for the wine bottle, her slim fingers skimming playfully along his arm.

Her touch seemed to spark a wave of shimmering heat throughout his body, a sensation that was almost foreign to him. Athos found his eyes involuntarily travelling over her, noting the delicious little details that had somehow escaped him when he was sedated—the pale pink heart-shaped scar on her left wrist, the sweet little mole on her neck that was just begging to be kissed, and the full, inviting lower lip that she chewed on ever so slightly when she was concentrating. The long-buried ghost of desire began to thread its way through his body, and he started to feel uneasy.

As Charlotte turned to hand Athos his goblet, she felt a sudden undercurrent of tension in the room. His eyes, so alive a few moments ago, were now remote and unreadable, and her heart dropped. _ I have made a colossal error. I have been too relaxed—too familiar. Why did I not stick to the script of being completely objective? He obviously thinks I am seeking his attention, and he is not at all interested. _

"Actually," said Athos slowly, clearing his throat, "I believe I have become tired, and perhaps it would be better if I try to sleep. Why don't you go walk in the gardens for a bit? If Aramis and Athos return before you come back, I'll send them to look for you."

She nodded, feeling slightly disappointed, but managed to school her voice into a semblance of cheeriness. "That's probably a wise idea. I'll be back to fetch my things before I leave. Get some rest."

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Several hours later, Aramis and Porthos returned to the palace, Porthos having smugly pocketed 75 livres in winnings from the Red Guard trainees.

"Do you think we'll be interruptin' anything?" asked Porthos speculatively, a glint in his eye.

"I am not optimistic, but one can always hope," sighed Aramis. Knocking on the door of the room, he waited a beat or two, glanced at Porthos, then opened it. They were greeted by the sight of a dishevelled Athos, slumped over in bed with a near empty wine bottle in front of him, goblet in hand.

"May I ask what is going on?" asked Aramis carefully. "Where is Mademoiselle Charlotte?"

Athos waved a hand vaguely in the direction of outside. "She—some—shes's somewhere out there." His slurred speech indicated that he and the bottle of wine, rather than he and Charlotte, had spent quite a bit of quality time together. Porthos exchanged a glance with Aramis. _Worse than I thought._ Aramis nodded, and motioned for Porthos to go look for Charlotte.

Once the two were alone, Aramis pulled a chair over to the bedside, and regarded his comrade calmly. "You disappoint me, my friend."

Athos glared at him. "I'm not in the mood for a lecture, damn you."

"Who said I was going to lecture you? Athos, I am merely here to listen…and to give you a refresher in the art of courtship, if necessary."

"Not interested," growled Athos.

"Yes, you are," responded Aramis patiently. "You are just not yet willing to acknowledge the fact. Although why you wish to restrain your emotions in such a way mystifies me."

_Restrain_. Athos stared at Aramis. The word touched the wisp of a memory hovering at the edge of his brain. Suddenly, he heard his voice echoing in his head. _Do you often restrain men that you have at your mercy?_

"God, no," he muttered, taking a last swig from the bottle and holding his head in his hands. "I should never have said it. What was I thinking?"

"You told her how you felt!" exulted Aramis. "That's brilliant! Excellent progress! What did you tell the lovely Charlotte?" He offered his friend his best supportive smile.

Athos looked at him, embarrassed and miserable, and muttered, "I believe I asked her if she likes to tie up men."

Aramis suddenly developed a paroxysm of coughing, trying heroically to hide the urge to laugh hysterically. "Now **that's**-" he finally gasped, "-the way to make an impression!"

**How I love making Athos squirm!**

**Next time...Charlotte makes a late night visit to the garrison.**


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter XVI...in which Charlotte appears at the garrison late one evening, and unexpectedly shows up at Athos' door.**

** CHAPTER XVI**

Two nights later, a full moon shone full over the garrison. The evening was cold and clear, and most of Paris was already sound asleep. Now back in his small, cell-like room, Athos was exhausted mentally and physically, but could not get his mind to relax. He lay motionless, the silvery light from the moon filtering through the shutters of his window and onto his bed. Scenes from his life with Anne were playing through his head-the excitement of the pursuit, the thrill of the capture, and the sweetness of discovering each other. He gazed at the ceiling, remembering how badly he had wanted to try for a child immediately. She had persuaded him to wait_. Probably the only favour she ever did me_, he thought morosely.

At that moment, a soft tap came on the door. The other musketeers never knocked that tentatively, so his thoughts went immediately to the stable boys. _Not Roger_. The horse had been the only constant in his life the past few weeks, and the thought of something being amiss with his mount troubled him.

"Come in," he called softly, swinging his legs out of bed and reaching in reflex for his boots. He had retired to bed still dressed in breeches and linen shirt, too tired to care about undressing. He became immediately thankful for this state of affairs, for the door scraped open slightly, and Charlotte Gaillard cautiously peered into the barren room.

"Monsieur Athos?" she inquired in a quiet voice.

"Mademoiselle Gaillard. Come in," he responded in a courtly manner, rising to his feet and smoothly covering his surprise. "Are you quite alright?"

"Yes, thank you," she responded a bit shyly, slipping through the door soundlessly. Her satchel was pressed close to her body against her heavy woollen cloak, which was wet from the rain earlier that evening. "Truth be told, my father was called by Captain Treville to attend to one of the new recruits who was injured in a brawl this evening, and he asked me to come along."

She was shivering in her damp cloak, and Athos instinctively went to her. "You look like you are freezing," he said with solicitude, regretting that his hearth was bare. "Come here, let me take your cloak." He unfastened the clasp at her throat and tossed her garment to the side, noting in dismay that she was wearing a thin blue dress that was not nearly warm enough for the weather. "It is madness for you to be out this late. It must be midnight."

"The call was an emergency, and my father is not well" she replied slowly. "I did not feel comfortable having him navigate the streets by himself in this cold. So—" she smiled at him—"here I am. I thought I would take the opportunity to check your shoulder."

"There's no need," he said softly, returning her smile. "I've done well, thanks to you."

"May I see? If only to feel gratified at the outcome?" she looked at him so pleadingly that he relented.

"Very well." With one fluid motion, he pulled his shirt over his head, casting it onto the thin mattress that marked his sorry excuse for a bed. He felt somewhat exposed, and involuntarily reached for a blanket.

"No, don't," she stayed his hand, looking at him with an honest, open gaze. "Trust me, Athos. I trust you enough to be here in your room alone at nearly midnight. I have no fear for my virtue, and neither should you,' she gave him a mischievous smile.

"As if," he scoffed in amusement. "Despite what the Cardinal thinks, I doubt you could overpower me, even with your feminine wiles."

"Is that a challenge?" she inquired, her voice low.

"Would you like it to be?" he heard himself saying, his voice pitched in an equally charismatic fashion.

Charlotte approached him with an affectionate smile, and gently ran her fingers over his shoulder. "I think we both know the answer to that."

_What does **that **mean?_ thought Athos, feeling slightly uncomfortable. There was something imperceptively different about her manner tonight. _Did I perhaps inadvertently give her encouragement to pursue me when I was drugged? Was I aggressive?_

"It's healing nicely," she said in an approving tone. Her hands roamed from his shoulder to glide down his back, and he felt her lips brush across his spine as her voice lowered, becoming more sultry. "You have a magnificent body, Athos."

"Pardon?" he whirled around, completely nonplussed.

She continued on as if she had not even heard him. "It tells me much about your life."

"Such as?" he asked hoarsely.

Looking up at him through her long lashes, she murmured, "Your shoulder, for instance. It speaks of a gallant man who is willing to put his life on the line to save his friend."

She came a step closer, and placed her hands on his arms, running her fingers down the curve of his biceps. He tensed slightly, despite her caressing touch. "Your arms are lean and strong, and there is grace in your movements. You are a brilliant swordsman, and you will defend your king to the death."

"That is my commission," he responded simply, his eyes fixed on her as if in a trance.

"Yes, but you take it more seriously than some others do. Honour is your life."

Her arms slipped around him, and she laid her head on his chest, her silky hair smooth against his skin. "I owe you my own life. I am quite sure if you had not defended me from the Cardinal, I would be imprisoned in the Chatelet right now."

Her cheek was cold where it touched his skin, and he heard himself say, "You are still chilled. Come, sit on the bed, and let me warm you up with a blanket."

He guided her over to the bed and sat her down in the middle, where the mattress was not too thin. He draped a warm woollen blanket over her shoulders, then glanced around the room and inquired, "Would you like me to start a fire? If your father will be some time, we would be more comfortable. I am feeling the cold myself." He reached for his shirt and she once again stopped him, gently pulling him down next to her.

"What do you want from me?" he muttered, becoming more and more confused as she reached up and began to slowly trace his jawline with her fingers.

"In one sense, I have gotten what I came for. You are attracted to me, are you not?"

At a loss for words, he simply stared at her.

"And you are everything I have ever wanted in a man. The question is, what are you going to do about it?"

He continued to gaze at her, transfixed by the alluring look in her eyes. "The Cardinal was right," he swallowed. "You are a dangerous woman."

"You only think that because I am awakening feelings of desire and want in you that you thought long since buried….and you are very afraid to become in touch with that part of you again…to trust someone enough to allow them into your very soul."

"I am afraid of nothing," he said hoarsely, gathering her into his arms and rolling her neatly onto her back on the bed. He leaned over her, bracing his arms on either side of her, ignoring the jolt of pain in his shoulder. He lowered his face to within inches of hers, looking at her intently. "This is a risky, risky game you play, Mademoiselle Charlotte. The outcome may not be what you desire."

"Oh Athos…you are so mistaken," she murmured, lacing her fingers around his neck, "Do you not realize by now that what I desire more than anything is you?" Her voice dropped to a whisper as she dared him with her eyes to kiss her. "Prove to me you are the man I think you are."

His voice became husky as he lowered his lips to her neck. "I have nothing to prove, but I will enjoy very much showing you just how wrong you are." As he made contact with her soft skin, she gasped in pleasure, tangling her hands in his hair. He hesitated for an instant_. It's been so long since I've even kissed a woman._

At that moment, he felt cold metal came into contact with his temple, and froze.

"So, so predictable," came the sarcastic, jeering voice. "I have ruined you for life, Athos. You are afraid of a common shop girl! I had thought of killing you now, but it might be more entertaining to watch you try to overcome your fear of intimacy and fail miserably."

The pistol was removed from his temple, and Athos twisted his head to see Milady de Winter pull up a chair and sit coolly next to the bed.

"What are you doing?" he growled.

"Watching," she replied calmly, a contemptuous smile on her face. "Go ahead, Athos. Prove you are not a damaged, lost, shell of a man."

He felt as if his muscles were paralyzed, and in slow motion saw himself look down at Charlotte. She appeared upset and disappointed, and averted her gaze. Starting to panic, he shot a glance at Milady, and she began to laugh in a high-pitched, evil cackle that made him feel as if despair was entering his very soul. The laughing continued, and he began to feel colder and colder….

He woke up with a start, and found himself shivering. The grey light of a winter morning was streaming into his room, and he concluded his night had been restless, for the blanket and thin coverlet were on the floor. Two large crows were fighting over the water in the bucket that was sitting on the windowsill, cawing loudly as their wings beat against one another. He cursed and threw an empty flask at them, causing them to fly away, shrieking in fury.

_ I cannot let her win_, he thought in determination.

**I think this chapter was one of my favorites to write-roaming around in Athos' subconscious was pretty darn fun! Hope you are enjoying the ride...I realize this story is hard to categorize, as it's an odd mix of humour, drama, romance, friendship, and angst (why are we only allowed to tag two for each story?), but a lot of it is flowing out of my brain as I sit at the computer, and it has turned from a planned 4-5 chapter story focusing on Aramis and the baby into an entirely different animal. **

**Next time..the King's guest list for the New Year's Eve Ball expands a bit beyond the initial plans.**


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter XVII..in which the King and the Cardinal engage in party-planning...**

**CHAPTER XVII**

Anne entered Louis' official study on her guard, wary of what might lie in store for her. Her husband had made the unusual request of asking her to be present at his usual morning meeting with the Cardinal. She hated being in the presence of Richelieu, who inevitably seemed to regard her as an empty-headed and rather bothersome appendage of the King.

"Your Majesty," bowed the Cardinal graciously, favouring her with a smile that looked anything but genuine.

"Cardinal." She nodded politely, then turned to Louis with a face she hoped looked serene. "Sire, I am here as you requested."

"Yes right," he said absently, not even glancing up as he continued to rummage through some papers. "I wanted to make sure you were involved in the planning for the New Year's Eve Ball."

"But I thought the plans were already finalized," ventured Anne uncertainly. It was always difficult to read Louis when he was in a capricious mood, as he seemed to be this morning.

"Well, I have decided to change the theme," Louis declared smugly, getting up and walking over to the window. He peered through the the glass, anxious to view the progess of the small army of servants that had been mobilized to move decorations and supplies into the palace. "After all, a heroic musketeer has saved my son from certain death."

Richelieu cleared his throat. "Your Majesty, you are correct that your son was saved from possibly being taken by criminals, but the musketeers involved also let those men breach the building. My Red Guards would never have allowed such an intrusion."

"Nevertheless, Cardinal," Louis replied pointedly, his tone showing that he would brook no argument, "Treville's regiment has proved itself time and again to be loyal and true. I would like to pay tribute to Musketeer gallantry by changing the colours of the ball."

"But…," the Cardinal swallowed, "the invitations have already been delivered, and they have been designed in the colours of white and red, as per your instruction."

"Well then," came the acid reply, "You had better get the printers busy. They will be reprinted—today. The theme colour will now be the gallant blue of the musketeers' capes. All guests-" he circled the room, expansively spreading his arms, then glancing at the Cardinal with an annoyed expression, "What are you waiting for? Please take my dictation, Armand—"

Richelieu scrambled for a pen and paper as the King continued on, his voice growing louder, "-will be instructed to wear gold or blue…"

"But what if they have already prepared their clothes for the festivities? It will be a burden for the attendees to have to buy something else…"

"It is for their King," answered Louis arrogantly. "They will be happy to do so." He then pressed on, oblivious of the Cardinal's discontent, "I have also decided that the musketeer Athos, who saved my son, will be the guest of honour, and will be formally presented as my son's newest godfather. In fact, I would like Treville's entire regiment to be there to be recognized as a regiment of distinction."

"Is that **really** necessary, Your Majesty?" asked Richelieu with an annoyed sigh. "After all, Musketeers do not have a monopoly on brave acts."

Louis turned to stare at the Cardinal, and finally spoke in an icy voice. "Let me ask you a question, Cardinal. Have **you** performed any brave acts in my service of late?"

The Cardinal looked uneasy, and offered no reply.

"I thought not," murmured Louis in a low, dangerous tone. "So show me the respect due your sovereign, Cardinal, and make it happen." He glanced over at Anne. "Thank you for taking the time to give me your thoughts, Anne." Realizing she was being dismissed, the Queen curtsied and left. _Thank you for taking the time to ignore me as usual_, she thought, suddenly feeling very tired.

Once she had left, Louis sat at his desk. "Oh, one more thing, Cardinal. Please make sure my physician is also invited."

"But Your Majesty," faltered Richelieu. "Do you not recall that he was found dead in the street two nights ago? He had been been fatally shot."

"Oh, that-yes," said Louis vaguely. "How annoying. Now I will have to find another. Can you find me some candidates?"

"Of course, your Majesty. It must say, it is really a miracle Athos survived without the services of Dr. Ambrose."

"Who treated him?" asked the King curiously.

"Some charlatan of a girl who claimed to be an herbalist."

"Yes, now I remember," said the King, a sly grin appearing on his face. "The Head Footman told me she made an rather singular impression on his men." He giggled. "Apparently she was quite attractive." He paused a moment, then added grandly, "Well, I wish her to attend. Find her and send an invitation today!"

"She is but a girl, Your Majesty," said the Cardinal in a disparaging voice. "What if her father is uneasy about her attending unescorted?"

"Then have her attend as Athos' personal guest," came the irritated reply. "He can escort her. Surely a father would feel secure having the finest of the King's men by her side." He sighed in annoyance. "Do I have to do **all** the thinking for you, Cardinal? It becomes very boring at times. " Waving his hand imperiously, he said in a dismissive voice, "You may leave. Go on- make yourself useful. Start on the list I've given you. I shall expect an update at noon."

When the regimental invitation arrived at the garrison, Treville scanned it, then rubbed his face thoughtfully. He assumed the Cardinal was not happy about this state of affairs, and he suspected that Athos would not be either. The musketeer had seemed largely indifferent to the citation he had received from Louis for his heroism, and the Captain had had no idea that his man had been named as a godfather to the Dauphin. In spite of all this, the fact remained that an invitation from the King could not be declined.

He stepped out onto the long balcony adjoining his office and leaned over to catch the attention of D'Artagnan, who had just returned from a visit home to Gascony for the wedding of a favorite cousin. He was watching Aramis and Porthos train with their swords, smirking and calling out sarcastic comments when one bested the other. Catching the Captains' eye, D'Artagnan nudged Athos, who was standing next to him, and whistled, causing Aramis and Porthos to stop duelling. "You four-my office-now," barked Treville, and stalked back into his office.

Truth be told, Treville was not especially looking forward to the idea of having to spend New Year's Eve at a social engagement at the palace. His own version of a perfect way to ring in the New Year involved a tramp through the countryside outside Paris. It would be followed by a bottle of brandy, sipped in front of a fire whilst reading a good book, preferably with his dog at his feet.

He sat down at his desk, and leaned back in his chair as his men filed in, Aramis closing the door.

"The presence of the regiment has been requested at the New Year's Eve ball at the Palace."

D'Artagnan's head dropped onto his chest, and he shut his eyes in frustration. He had planned on getting completely, utterly, Athos-style obliterated that night, in order to insulate himself from the memory of last New Year's Eve, which he had spent in the company of Constance while her husband was out of town.

Next to him, Aramis cleared his throat slightly. "What if we have other plans?" he asked hopefully. "Are we excused?" He had already made an engagement for that evening with Arielle, an enchanting young woman he had met a tavern last week.

"No," answered Treville, glaring at him. "No excuses."

"Then I shall plan to be sick that evening," said Athos in his low voice, gazing intently at Treville. "You know I abhor social gatherings. Besides, I am recovering from a near brush with death."

"That didn't seem to prevent you from loitering in the courtyard today," observed Treville dryly. "You will be doing the same exact thing at the Palace, albeit in a dress uniform and with an abundance of fine food and wine. Besides, Athos," he grinned, "you are the guest of honour. What is even more interesting is that the King has arranged for you to serve as the escort for another guest."

Athos groaned. _This is going to be worse than I thought._

"Which eligible young aristocratic lady am I to be tortured with for the evening?" he inquired in an apathetic voice, rolling his eyes.

"The young woman question is someone whom I believe you are already acquainted with," answered Treville blithely. "Charlotte Gaillard."

Grinning widely at Aramis, Porthos immediately interrupted. "I am so lookin' forward to this duty, Captain. Can't wait, in fact."

"Thank you, Porthos," replied Treville gratefully, then glared at the rest of his men. "I am glad that at least one of you has a sense of duty."

"Don't worry, Captain," Aramis chimed in, aiming a smirk at Athos, "Upon reflection, I wouldn't miss this for the world."

**Next** **time-Athos delivers Charlotte's invitation...**


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter XVIII...in which Athos visits Charlotte's shop to deliver the invitation...and to convince her to accept.**

**CHAPTER XVIII**

As his friends left Treville's office, Athos hung back, and indicated he would rejoin them momentarily. He shut the door, then stood in front of Treville's desk, toying with the hat in his hands.

"May I help you, Athos?" inquired the Captain, noting the discomfort in his best man's manner. "I assume you are finally ready to collect the handsome reward the King has given you? If so, that is welcome news I've grown tired of it sitting in the locked drawer in my desk."

"Well, actually, it's just-" Athos began, then hesitated. "It's just—I assume there is a theme or a dress code for the event? I am concerned that a gown for the ball may be a luxury that Mademoiselle Gaillard cannot afford."

"And you were thinking?" prompted Treville.

"Would it be acceptable for me to offer some assistance in the purchase of such a garment? The reward I received from the King should do nicely."

"That would be a very welcome gesture, I'm sure," responded Treville warmly, unlocking his drawer and tossing the heavy bag of coins to Athos_. _"I would suggest, however, that you make haste to present the offer to Mademoiselle Gaillard. In fact, you can deliver her invitation. It was entrusted to me to give to her. He handed Athos the ornate envelope. The musketeer gave Treville a grateful look and nodded his thanks, putting his hat on. "Good evening, Captain."

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Several streets away, dusk was falling, and Charlotte was feeling tired and out of sorts. Her father was out of town, having left for several days to visit his sister, who lived in a small town outside Paris. She was glad for him to have a chance to get away, for the duties of their business seemed to be weighing on him more heavily of late. She had been initially relieved to have the shop to herself, as Michel had the day off. However, there had been a steady stream of exceptionally demanding customers all day. There had been a point where she had actually wished she had had Michel to help, despite the fact that he made her want to slap him nearly every time he opened his mouth.

Several customers had been annoyed to find neither Michel nor her father there, and had been less than gracious with her. For her part, Charlotte was having a harder time than usual staying focused. She had caught herself daydreaming about Athos several times that morning, once while engaged in dealing with a particularly difficult customer. The man had noticed her brief period of inattention, and had stalked out, muttering darkly about the idiocy of women working in business.

Charlotte had been upset with herself, for she took pride in always giving the people who patronized the shop her full attention_. Enough_, she told herself sternly. _It is back to the real world for you now. Athos is no longer part of your life. Think about your father. He needs you to do your best to keep this business going. Papa._ His feet were often swollen at the end of the day, and he wheezed when he climbed up the flight of stairs to their rooms. Charlotte had begun giving him a daily dose of foxglove several months ago, after her surgeon friend Martin had suggested it might strengthen what he suspected was a weak heart beating in her father's chest. _That's my last task left for the day_, she thought, her shoulders aching. _Just prepare Papa's medicine, then close up for the night._

Athos paused outside the shop, and glanced through the window, which was already partially shuttered in preparation for closing. A candle flickered on the herb-grinding table, throwing a warm glow over the wood. Charlotte was bent over the table, concentrating on mixing some ingredients with a mortar and pestle. Her hair was caught up in a messy bun, and several wisps of hair were straggling down her neck. Her posture bespoke a long, arduous day, for her back was stooped a bit and her shoulders slumped. She put down the pestle for an instant to straighten up and arch her back, trying to ease the persistent pain in her spine. She closed her eyes for a moment, and the light cast a shadow on her face, showing her features in relief._ She is exhausted_, thought Athos with compassion. _All the more reason for her to be offered one night of revelry._

When the bell on the door of the shop rang and the door scraped open, Charlotte groaned inwardly. _Why did I not lock the door when I had the chance?_ "I'm sorry," she began, wiping her hands and turning to meet her would-be customer. "We are actually closed—"

She caught a flash of a light blue cloak, and her heart began to pound. She raised her eyes and saw an imposing man in black leather, the pauldron of a Musketeer proudly displayed on his shoulder. His blue cloak was slung over his shoulder, and his hat rested low over his face. For an instant, she was unsure who she was looking at. A moment later, she heard a familiar, hypnotizing voice, and knew for certain. "Don't tell me you don't recognize your most troublesome patient." Athos looked down at her with an amused expression, his eyes crinkled with a hint of mischief.

"You look so-different!" Charlotte blurted out awkwardly.

"I am assuming that is a good thing?" he inquired in a wry tone.

"Yes…I mean no—" Charlotte found herself uncharacteristically flustered, completely thrown off guard by how ruggedly handsome he looked, especially with his eyes now alert and his colour returned to normal. Taking a deep breath to collect herself, she said formally, "What I mean to say, Monsieur, is that I am glad to see you looking well." She paused, then a thought occurred to her. Her voice full of concern, she asked anxiously, "Is everything well? Or have you a problem with the wound?"

"If this is your way to try to coax me into removing my shirt again, Mademoiselle, I regret to inform you that you will not succeed," replied Athos, his cool eyes teasing her. _My God, is he flirting with me? In his right mind?_

"In fact," he continued, warming with pleasure at having induced her to blush, "I am here on behalf of the King. Your presence has been requested at the New Year's Eve Ball at the palace." He handed Charlotte an elegant envelope in the pale blue of the Musketeers' dress cloak, and patiently waited for her to open it.

She scanned the invitation, looked at him in disbelief for an instant, then sobered. "While the invitation is-an honour, Monsieur Athos, I am afraid it would be quite impossible. I have no appropriate gown for such an occasion."

"Provision has been made for such a garment."

"By whom?" asked Charlotte incredulously.

"The money comes from the King himself," replied Athos carefully, determined that she not know that the funds had passed through his hands. "He wishes to express his thanks for you saving the life of a musketeer who had some small part in foiling the plot on his son."

"But—my father is out of town for several days," faltered Charlotte. "I could not possibly attend without an escort unless I had his permission."

"Did you read the last line?" prompted Athos. Charlotte took a closer look at the card she held in her hand._ Athos of the regiment of Captain Treville, King's Musketeers, has been appointed as your escort for the evening._

_"_Again, provision has been made," he continued casually. "And fortunately for you, your escort's arm has recovered to a degree where he may be able to make some clumsy attempt at holding his arm over your shoulder if so required during a courtly dance."

While the thought of being in Athos' arms was not exactly dismaying, the thought of having to dance in front of an array of nobles was. "But," she said slowly, "I have no concept of how to dance in such a fashion. My only acquaintance with dancing is the folk dances we do at church festivals." She coloured slightly and said ruefully, "I doubt the King favours such entertainment."

"Well," murmured Athos, regarding her kindly, "Perhaps some arrangement can be made for some cursory lessons before we attend. I happen to know someone who was forced to learn such dancing from the age of 5—and who spent many long hours as a young man sweating in wool garments at winter balls."

When she looked at him inquiringly, he smiled and said softly. "I speak of myself." Reaching for her cloak, he asked in that rich, low voice that enchanted her, "Now, have we covered every possible obstacle that could prevent you from attending?" She nodded, giving him a shy smile.

"Good," he replied approvingly. "Then we should be on our way to the Bonacieux residence. Madame Constance Bonacieux is a lady-in-waiting to the Queen, and her husband is a draper who is proud," he smiled deprecatingly, "to proclaim that he sells the best and most fashionable material in town. Constance has arranged to have one of the best seamstresses in Paris meet us there. You will be measured and fitted for a gown of your liking. And it will be completed well in time for the ball."

"I suppose I can hardly refuse, then," murmured Charlotte, reaching for her cloak. They left the shop and she took Athos' arm as they headed down the street. Conversing quietly, they failed to notice a figure loitering in a nearby alley, covered in a hooded cloak. From her vantage point behind an arch, Milady de Winter eyed the couple, her green eyes narrowing in thought. A moment later, a stealthy, chilling smile spread across her face.

**Next time-the scene moves to the Bonacieux residence...**


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter XIX... in which Charlotte is fitted for a dress by a rather cranky seamstress, and Athos finds his patience tested by said seamstress...**

**CHAPTER XIX**

Constance's home was warm and inviting after a brisk walk through the cold night air. She opened the door immediately upon Athos' knock, and gave him a brief hug before turning to Charlotte.

"Hello Charlotte, I'm Constance. I'm so glad to meet you—Athos has spoken very highly of you. I hear that you in fact saved his life, and for that I am grateful. Athos has been a friend to me through good times and—" her voice cracked for just an instant, "—bad." She turned to Charlotte and said in a tone of forced brightness, "Let's get you started." Taking Charlotte's arm, she guided her into her bedroom, where she introduced the seamstress, Madame Arlene.

The elderly seamstress was a small, thin woman with piercing black eyes and a mass of white hair plaited and wrapped around her head in a tight, unforgiving braid. She regarded Charlotte with a critical eye, pursing her lips as she muttered under her breath, before seemingly coming to an opinion and offering her observations with a loud voice. "Hmm. Nice complexion. I'm not overly fond of ginger hair—reminds me of carrots all limp on my plate—my mother always overcooked them something terrible-but I suppose I can work with it, given acceptable fabric." The woman scuttled around her like a crab, measuring here and there and clucking her tongue intermittently in disapproval. "Bosom's decent…but neck's a good deal too long—will have to adjust the collar so she doesn't look like a giraffe. Waist is small- that's a plus-but the torso is not proportioned symmetrically—makes her look dumpy. I'll have a major job disguising that."

Feeling as if she was a horse being assessed for auction, Charlotte stood uncomfortably under the woman's gaze. Madame Arlene finally raised her eyes to Charlotte, and snapped, "Well, what are you waiting for? I'm an artist—I need a palette! Ideas to work with! Where's the material?"

Constance smoothly interrupted. "Allow us a few minutes, Madame. I have not had a chance yet to display the range of fabric we have currently in stock. Perhaps a cup of tea in front of the fire while Mademoiselle Charlotte and I have a look?"

The old woman grunted sarcastically, "I suppose I could waste some more of my precious time…it's not like I've got five orders left to fill before the week is out. But if it has to be, I need to at least be fed decently. Have you any biscuits? Sausage?" She paused, then asked hopefully, "Any roast duck left over from Christmas?"

Five minutes later, Madame Arlene was snoozing in front of the fire, biscuit crumbs adorning the front of her dress. Meanwhile, Constance brought out a dozen bolts of gold and blue fabric and placed them on the bed.

"Right. Blue and gold. Do you have a preference for your main colour?" She tilted her head and regarded Charlotte appraisingly. "I'm thinking gold...suits your lovely hair."

Charlotte laughed. "At least you didn't compare me to a lifeless carrot."

Constance smiled. "Don't mind Madame Arlene. She's a crotchety old thing, never has anything complimentary to say about anyone, but she will make you look like a vision of loveliness. Athos won't be able to take his eyes off you."

"I don't think it's quite like that," Charlotte replied mildly. "We have merely—struck up a friendship out of the circumstances fate put us in." Anxious to change the topic, she asked, "Are you acquainted with Athos' comrades? Aramis and Porthos?"

"Oh, yes," answered Constance. "They call them the Inseparables. You rarely see one without the other."

"I believe there is another in their company-d'Artagnan-whom I have not yet met. Do you know him?"

A shadow crossed Constance's face, and Charlotte realized with a sinking heart that she had upset her hostess.

"I'm sorry," she said impulsively, laying her hand on Constance's arm. "Here I am asking questions about everything but the project at hand! I'm grateful for you taking your time to help me, and I don't need to be prattling on. I agree gold likely suits me better. What about the bodice?"

Constance opened her armoire, and showed her three different styles of dresses.

"You have such a lovely wardrobe!" exclaimed Charlotte, her eyes shining. "I have only two everyday dresses, and a simple grey dress for special occasions that went out of style two years ago. I really have no idea what would look best-I've never worn anything so beautiful." She fingered the delicate sequins that outlined the bodice of one of the dresses. "Perhaps something like this? In pale blue?"

Constance nodded approvingly. "I think that would be beautiful. Let's go rouse our artist."

A few moments later, Madame Arlene was scowling over the material, having completed Charlotte's measurements. "I suppose I can make it work, but don't be expecting too much—I can't have the stress of a rush order ratcheted up by a young woman thinking she's destined to be the belle of the ball, like most of these foolish young minxes do. Whatever happened to modest young ladies? In my day, we didn't go out gallivanting with musketeers, no matter how handsome." She gave Charlotte a dark look. "Better watch that one, young woman—I saw him looking at you like a wolf looks at a spring lamb."

The idea of Athos regarding her in anything like the fashion of a predatory animal of the forest made Charlotte want to laugh hysterically. "I shall take your advice to heart, Madame," she said solemnly, stifling her amusement. "My mother died some years ago, and it is much appreciated to have the wisdom of an experienced woman in these matters."

Madame Arlene harrumphed, then muttered, "Well, perhaps you're not a lost cause after all. At least you know how to show some respect to your elders. But mind that one-"she wagged her finger towards the parlour, where Charlotte could just glimpse Athos pacing in front of the fire, "-or you'll be needing your dresses let out to accommodate a growing child in that belly! I've seen it happen all too often! All too often…" She continued talking to herself about the shameful morals of today's society, and Charlotte and Constance took that as their cue to leave.

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Constance sent Charlotte into the kitchen to pour herself a cup of tea, and tentatively walked into the parlour. She stood in the frame of the door, arms crossed, and met Athos' eyes.

"Has she found something she likes?" inquired Athos.

"I believe so. She had a real liking for a sequined bodice on one of my dresses, but Madame Arlene told her in no uncertain terms she couldn't manage such a thing on a 48 hour timetable."

"Is that so?" Athos asked, his voice circumspect. "Perhaps I should have a word with Madame Arlene. After all," he added with a sly grin, "we have yet to set a price."

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Several minutes later, Madame Arlene and Athos were glaring at each other from across the parlour.

"I think, Monsieur, that you have no appreciation for the pride I take in my artistry. I do not just **churn** out ball gowns every two hours. I was trained up by a woman who had been a seamstress to the queen herself. The price of such exquisite craftsmanship comes dear. It is** not** available to everyone—nor should it be," she added, preening herself slightly.

"How much?" inquired Athos in a bored voice.

"I beg your pardon?" exclaimed the seamstress, aghast. "You make it sound as if I am merely angling for your pocketbook, sir, and-"

"Aren't you?" He gave her a pointed look. "What sum do you care to propose?"

A calculating look came into the old woman's eyes. "Four hundred livres," she said promptly. "No more, no less. It is a true bargain with this timeline."

"Is that so?" Athos stared at her, his manner imperious. "Do not assume, Madame, that since I live in the company of men, that I have no knowledge of the cost of such gowns. The price you name is highway robbery, pure and simple. One hundred and seventy five."

"Highway robbery!" the woman screeched. "It is you who are the criminal! My reputation is on the line when I push myself to finish a gown in such a ridiculous amount of time. If it is not up to the lofty standards I am known for, my business could suffer much indeed. I need to be compensated for assuming such risk."

"What risk is there when you have done this a thousand times before?" Athos retorted in a caustic tone. "Two hundred…plus the sequined bodice. It is what she desires, and she shall have it."

"You sir-"choked the woman, her face turning purple, "—you call yourself a gentleman? You do not deserve to wear the pauldron you display so proudly on your shoulder! God will strike you dead for trying to take advantage of an old woman struggling to make a living. I will not allow myself to be insulted in such a fashion. I am leaving!" She turned and walked to the door, turning back to glance over her shoulder, waiting for a reaction from Athos, who stood coolly facing the window.

He raised an eyebrow. "As you wish, Madame. I have already secured another estimate from a seamstress who currently serves the Queen. She will create the gown for 200 livres, and her attitude is a far sight better than yours. Travel safely." He turned his back, smiling to himself. _One. Two. Three._

"I suppose I can make an exception this time," snapped the woman. "An honest man would lose sleep over taking advantage of an old woman the way you are doing—but I expect you will sleep the night through with no interruptions, black as your soul is."

"The colour of my soul is no concern of yours," responded Athos serenely. "But the colour of my money should be. If you can bring yourself to hold your acid tongue for the next 48 hours, I will gladly pay you a 25 livre bonus."

The woman's face slowly turned sunny, and she curtsied. "Your servant, kind sir."

Exiting the room, she left Athos alone, staring moodily into the fire. Constance came back into the room, and the musketeer became aware of her presence.

"He's doing as well as can be expected," Athos said in a low voice, leaning against the fireplace.

"Charlotte's a lovely girl," replied Constance, her voice thin with strain. "Tell me in detail the story of how you met her-you only gave me the most basic information when you asked me to help with her gown."

Athos advanced to her, his face compassionate. "Constance-I know for a fact he misses you—and you clearly miss him."

She looked up at him, her face a mask of misery. "It doesn't matter, Athos. You know we can never be together—not while my husband is alive. I **cannot** risk everything. Only men have the luxury of being able to rehabilitate their reputations after a fall. You know how the world works, and unfortunately so do I. Perhaps it's my punishment for desiring another man."

Athos placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "I want nothing but the best for you, Constance. As your friend, I will support whatever decision you feel you have to make, despite my bond with d'Artagnan. After all," he said with a smile of affection, "you got to my heart first."

**Next time-Athos and Charlotte stop for a late supper on the way home, and Charlotte finds her inhibitions lowered a bit by several glasses of wine..**


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter XX...in which-well, I believe the teaser at the end of the last chapter gave you a strong hint that sparks are about to fly for Athos and Charlotte...**

**CHAPTER XX**

When Athos and Charlotte finally bid Constance farewell, it was near ten o' clock. "Shall we get something to eat?" asked Athos solicitiously. "You must be starving."

"No, I'm fine," said Charlotte politely, regret slipping into her face. "I should be getting home. I can't take any more of your time tonight."

"What if I appeal to your sense of duty?" inquired Athos in that charismatic voice. "After all, I am recently recovered from a near death experience, and it might be wise to have a medical attendant in case I am in need of help."

Charlotte gave him a fond smile. "Well, when you put it that way, I suppose it is part of my obligation to my patient." She took his arm again. "Lead on."

A quarter of an hour later, they were seated in a small inn that was a fifteen minute walk from the garrison. Athos had chosen this particular establishment after careful thought. He considered the inn a good choice for an intimate dinner, as it was warm and welcoming, and the food and wine were excellent. Even more important, it was off the beaten path of Porthos and Aramis, who rarely frequented it due to the lack of card-playing, brawls, and eligible women.

Finally, he thought. A chance to just have a real conversation with Charlotte. No painkillers on board, no duties for either of us to attend to, and no Porthos and Aramis.

The well-endowed blonde barmaid brought them a carafe of wine, and smiled indulgently at Athos, then gave Charlotte a wink. "You must be someone special. This one usually spends the night in here with his arm wrapped around a bottle, not a woman."

"That'll do, Annette. Thank you," said Athos firmly, but politely. The barmaid got the hint, and moved on to the next table, turning back to give a thumbs-up to Charlotte when Athos was distracted by pouring the wine.

He handed Charlotte her goblet. "To us both surviving the ball."

Charlotte raised her goblet and saluted him, then drank deeply. It had been a long day-how long, she had not realized until just now. _How long had it been since she had eaten in an inn? Months. How long since she had eaten alone with an attractive, eligible man? Well, that would be never._

She looked up to see Athos scanning the crowd.

"Is something wrong?" she asked quietly.

"No, why do you ask?" He was puzzled at her question.

She smiled ruefully. "I suppose it is your training. You automatically chose a table where your back was to no one, and you have a clear view of the entrance. Just now, you appeared to be casually surveying the crowd, but I can tell you are subconsciously on alert, even off duty."

Athos smiled at her as he toyed with the stem of his goblet. "Old habits."

At that moment, the barmaid approached with a tray, and placed a platter of warm bread and two bowls of steaming venison stew on the table. She dropped cutlery next to the bowls, and cuffed Athos playfully. "Behave yourself, you. She looks like a nice girl." Athos gave her a wry grin in response, but his expression changed in an instant when he spied activity at the door.

_I am not believing this_, he groaned to himself. _Not tonight-of all nights._

"What?" asked Charlotte, craning her neck to see who had entered the inn. Standing at the door, waving cheerily at them, were Porthos and Aramis. A moment later, they had slid onto the curved bench around the table, neatly sandwiching Athos and Charlotte in between them.

"So," asked Porthos innocently, "How's hunting?"

"Hunting?" echoed Charlotte, entirely confused as she drained her second glass of wine.

Aramis, who was sitting next to Athos, broke in smoothly, ignoring the ever-intensifying glare he received from his comrade. "Athos told us earlier that he had a taste for a fresh young dove. We were hoping he might have had some success. Last we saw him, he was headed towards the edge of the city, musket in hand."

"I didn't know you were a hunter!" exclaimed Charlotte laughingly to Athos, dimly realizing her voice was a bit louder than normal. "Perhaps that is why the seamstress made that comment about you!"

"What comment would that be?" asked Aramis, his eyes glinting with mischief.

"Well," blushed Charlotte, the second glass of wine going to her head, "she told me—" she leaned her head against Athos' shoulder as she spoke conspiratorially to Aramis, "that this one-" she glanced up at Athos with an affectionate smile, "was looking at me like a wolf looks at a lamb."

"Really?" inquired Porthos, smirking at Aramis. "Athos, you didn't tell us you planned on targeting domesticated animals tonight."

Athos put his arm around Charlotte, ostensibly to steady her, but Aramis' keen eye noticed that he guided her to nestle against his chest. "I think I am about ready to call it a night," Athos responded tranquilly. "Mademoiselle Charlotte, may I escort you home?" he looked down at her with a serious expression, but Charlotte sensed a hint of flirtation in his eyes.

"That would be lovely," she replied softly.

Athos gave his comrades a pointed look. "Good night, my friends. I shall see you in the morning." He nudged Aramis, who reluctantly slid off the bench and allowed them to pass with a bow.

"Progress," mused Aramis with a satisfied smile, lifting his goblet. "I'll drink to that."

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Outside, the night had grown colder. Athos, who was largely unaffected by the wine, drew his cloak around him. Charlotte, on the other hand, seemed to be oblivious to the chill, and carried on an animated conversation with Athos the whole way home, amusing him with tales of the people from all walks of life who patronized the apothecary. When they finally reaching the shop, he prepared to leave her, but she insisted that he come inside for one last glass of wine. "Papa keeps it for our best customers, and I am sure he would put you in that category," she said with a smile. She poured them each a silver goblet of fine white wine, then casually hopped up on the herb-grinding table and sat facing Athos, who leaned against the cabinet in front of it.

"I hope you do not regret becoming involved in my care," said Athos with a sober expression, slowly swirling the wine in his goblet. He looked up to meet her eyes. "I have inadvertently thrust you into the spotlight, and I do not want you to end up begging me to forget you."

"Please," Charlotte said with a dismissive laugh. "I have never begged anyone for anything." She took a sip of her wine, and gave Athos a speculative look.

He sat down his glass. 'That sounds like a challenge," he murmured, his voice growing husky as his eyes regarded her intently.

"Would you like it to be?" inquired Charlotte serenely.

Athos shook his head for an instant, trying to discern whether this was truly reality, or just another dream. When his vision remained clear, he closed the distance between them, and placed his hands lightly on her waist. "Mademoiselle, I think you are more than aware that Musketeers thrive on challenge. It is what we live for."

"Well," she answered in a low, alluring voice. "I expect you must give it your best effort, then."

"And am I to understand that you are convinced," he continued, dropping his voice to the intimate tone he knew from experience could make a woman weak, "that there is nothing—" he lowered his head so his forehead was touching hers, their misting breath mingling in the chill of the shop, "-that I can do to induce you to beg? Nothing?"

"That is correct," she answered, trying to keep her speech calm and measured as Athos began to nuzzle her neck, his beard scraping against her skin in a way that made her shiver in pleasure.

"So even if I were to-" his voice became utterly seductive as his arms slipped around her, gathering her against his chest, "—dare to kiss you in the way you deserve to be kissed?"

"Even then-" she gasped, her words becoming more and more unsteady as his lips trailed across her jawline. "I believe I would not yield."

"Then I wish you good luck," whispered Athos hoarsely as his mouth descended on hers, "for you will need it, Mademoiselle. I am about to put you to the test."

Charlotte, who had had innocent flirtations in her younger years that had resulted in embraces with gangly teenage boys, had never been properly kissed by a man of passion, and found the sensation intoxicating. Athos was careful to be gentle with her, sensing her relative inexperience. After an initial exploration of her warm, pliable lips, he paused to give her a smouldering look that sent a wave of heat pulsing through her body. Charlotte dimly sensed that she was about to concede in a matter of seconds, and just as dimly realized that she didn't care. As she reached up to pull him down to her mouth again, she heard a familiar voice call angrily from the back staircase, "Whoever is in there, put your hands up, or I'll blow you to kingdom come!"

**I know-I'm so cruel! Thank you so much for all the kind reviews, especially the guest reviews that I can't respond personally to. I have met some wonderful people in the few short weeks since I finally took the plunge and posted my writing, and you all brighten my day more than you know with your comments!**

**Next time...Athos takes control of an awkward situation...and yes, we will finally get to the palace on the day of the ball-you've all been very patient to indulge my delay, but I hope this chapter made it worth it-it was for me! :-)**


	21. Chapter 21

**CHAPTER XXI**

"No! Michel! Stop!" cried Charlotte. "It's me!"

"Who is with you?" came a suspicious voice with a bit of a slur to it.

_Brilliant,_ thought Athos. _This is my introduction to the charming Michel that Porthos and Aramis told me about. And as luck would have it, he is drunk and holding a weapon._

"Just a friend," answered Charlotte calmly. "We were merely saying good night." She slowly detached herself from Athos, but stayed close to him.

"Is that so?" Michel's voice was cold and sarcastic, and he advanced slowly towards them, aiming his musket at Athos. "I **said**, hands **up**, Musketeer!"

Athos slowly raised his hands, and gave Charlotte an imperceptible nod of the head, imploring her with his eyes to move away. She shook her head slightly, and stayed by his side.

"Monsieur," said Athos quietly, "I believe you misunderstand the situation."

"You** believe I misunderstand **the situation?" mocked Michel. "How stupid do I look? I know exactly what was going on." He turned to Charlotte. "I must admit, Charlotte, you play the innocent virgin very well. You almost had me convinced—all those times you put me off with your holier-than-thou attitude. Clearly that was because you were keeping yourself busy with the garrison. What is he, the third you've had this week? Or the fourth? I've lost count of the number of men who have showed up here," his voice lowered to a sinister growl. "And all this time, you were laughing at me while you were giving yourself to men like this…."

As Michel lunged for Charlotte, Athos swiftly kicked the musket out of his hands, then ducked as the apprentice swung at him wildly. Michel turned over a small table, roaring in anger. "Fight like a real man!"

"If you insist," replied Athos dryly, seizing a chair and knocking Michel off balance, throwing him to the ground. An instant later, his foot was on Michel's chest, while his blade was at his throat. "But if you can suggest a real man somewhere in the vicinity for me to fight, that would be extremely helpful."

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Fifteen minutes later, Athos rejoined Charlotte in the main room of the shop. "He won't bother you again," he said in a composed voice. "At least not tonight."

"But how did—"

"Trust me, you don't want to know," replied Athos in a wry voice. "Now," he said softly with a charismatic smile, comfortably resting his hands once again at her waist, "Where were we when we were so rudely interrupted?"

"You were just about to marvel at my ability to display self-control," replied Charlotte impishly, running her finger slowly across his lips, then executing a deft half-turn to spin out of his grasp. "After all, my first duty is to my patient, and you must not overexert yourself quite yet. However, I will save you from having to concede that you have been beaten, because I am a gracious winner. Remember that, Monsieur." And with a sweet smile, she ascended the stairs, leaving Athos in the darkness, vaguely realizing that he had been bested.

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On the morning of December 31st, Charlotte awoke to find the glass on her window frosted with ice. A strong wind was driving around the corner of the apothecary shop, causing her to wonder if the weather would be an impediment to getting to the palace. Athos had assured her that he would arrange for a carriage to be sent for her at noon. She would be conveyed to Constance's for a last fitting, then on to the Palace.

"Will I see you in the afternoon?" she had asked, a bit nervous about the prospect of having to navigate the palace on her own.

"Unfortunately, most likely not," he had answered regretfully. "But I do intend to find you before the ball begins, as I promised you a dance lesson, and I am a man of my word."

The five hours until noon seemed to drag on forever. Charlotte reorganized the storeroom and swept the shop not once, but twice. When she could find nothing else to do downstairs, she wandered back up to her room and knelt in front of the small oak chest at the end of her bed. She opened the lid carefully, gingerly easing it back in order to reveal the contents. She lovingly ran a hand over the simple white baptismal gown that was laid on top. Charlotte had been christened in that gown, as had her mother before her. _Perhaps some day it will be used again. _

Laying the little white garment on her bed, she drew out a tiny black velvet bag that was adorned with a worn golden drawstring. Gently opening the bag, she emptied the contents into her palm, gazing at all that was left of her mother's jewellery. There had once been several gold rings, but these had been sold in order to pay for her mother's funeral.

What remained were Charlotte's most treasured possessions-a small sapphire pendant on a delicate silver chain, along a pair of matching earrings. She stood up slowly, and walked over to the small cracked mirror that lay propped against the wall on the wash stand. Placing the earrings carefully on the edge of the stand, she drew the pendant around her neck and fastened the clasp. The earrings came next, and as she peered into the glass, Charlotte was suddenly struck by how grown-up she looked. Most customers assumed she was several years younger than her actual age. It was her custom to dress simply, and she never wore jewellery in the shop, having long ago determined that it was much too impractical with the messy work that was often required of her. _ I will make the most of this night_, she thought with determination. _After all, it will be my last chance to have an excuse to see Athos...unless, of_ _course,_ _I give him a reason to remember me._

When Charlotte arrived at the Bonacieux residence, she was happy to see Constance waiting for her. "I can't wait for you to see your dress!" exclaimed Constance. "Madame Arlene has really outdone herself." She grinned at Charlotte. "Athos must have made quite an impression on her…..she's very anxious for you to be pleased." When they reached the door of Constance's bedroom, Charlotte was made to cover her eyes, then was led into the room.

When she opened her eyes as directed, her vision rapidly was impaired by tears of joy.

"Am I really going to wear that?" she whispered. Constance squeezed her hand. "I told you that Athos will not be able to keep his eyes off you." To her surprise, Charlotte did not dismiss her teasing, but slowly walked towards the gown, her eyes shining.

The dress was displayed in all its glory on a hanger suspended from the big four poster bed. The tailoring was exquisite, and when Charlotte slipped it on over her head, she was amazed to find it fit like a glove. The material was a golden champagne silk, with a corset-style bodice embellished with tiny sequins of the palest blue, which sparkled in the light.

"It even makes me look like I have a bosom," said Charlotte wonderingly, gazing at the mirror to see her breasts swelling on display above the bodice. She blushed as Constance laughed. "Of course you do, silly. You have a lovely figure."

The dark form of Madame Arlene suddenly scurried from behind the large wardrobe. "Just be sure you heed my advice when you are around that handsome musketeer, young lady. I cannot be held responsible in any way for indiscretions committed while wearing clothes of my design. And there is no way—," she looked critically at Charlotte's small waist, "—that even a seamstress of my level of accomplishment can let out the waistline on that dress. So consider yourself warned."

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Meanwhile, at the palace, Athos, Aramis, Porthos, and d'Artagnan were busy reviewing security measures for the evening with Captain Treville.

The Captain spread a map of the palace grounds over a large table in a room that was set aside for the platoon of musketeers that was always on duty. "As is the case for all state occasions, entry to the palace grounds will be tightly controlled from noon on. All gates will be closed, with the exception of the east entrance.

"Why not leave the main entrance open?" asked d'Artagnan, puzzled.

"Look more closely at the map," prompted Athos, trying to get his young protégé to think strategically. "If you were going to defend the palace, where would you choose to control the traffic flow?"

D'Artagnan studied the map a moment longer, furrowing his brow, then looked up to meet his mentor's eyes. "The east gate."

"Because?" asked Treville.

"The avenue leading to the gate narrows down to barely half the width of a normal boulevard, and a branch of the east wing flanks the approach, with multiple windows that would make it easy for the positioning of snipers if we needed to fend off an attempt to breach the grounds."

"Well done," murmured Athos in an undertone, nodding approvingly.

"We may make somethin' of you yet, eh?" grinned Porthos, clapping his hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder.

"The next priority is the King's safety. Fortunately, as the guest of honour, Athos will be in a position to make that detail his priority."

"Understood," replied Athos soberly, realizing that despite the fact that Charlotte would be at his side, this evening would be about duty for him, not diversion.

"Given recent events," Treville looked at his men intently, ensuring they were all focused on the mission, the safety of the Dauphin is of the utmost importance. I will need two men to guard him without fail during the course of the evening."

"I'll do it," said Aramis immediately, his face uncharacteristically serious and grim.

"D'Artagnan, I'd like you to be stationed with Aramis," stated Treville, eyeing the two closely and walking over to them with the cold stare that he assumed at times of crisis... "Now, I am going to be crystal clear with the two of you—not that I doubt your sense of duty or your attention spans—but no matter what, you do not move more than ten feet from the Dauphin all night. I don't care if a melee erupts in the ballroom, or if a bomb explodes in the courtyard…you **do not** under **any** circumstances leave the heir to the throne undefended."

Aramis' face had steadily grown stormy during this lecture, and he regarded the Captain with barely concealed fury. "Captain, I resent your implication that I would give allow anything to distract me from my mission. I will guard the Dauphin with my life. If anyone wishes to get to him, they will have to get through me first."

"Good," replied Treville shortly. "I expect no less from you. Don't disappoint me this time, Aramis."

Porthos sensed Aramis about to explode, and cut in smoothly. "What's my assignment, Captain?"

"We will personally inspect all invitations to make sure they are genuine. We will also personally vet all the entertainers. I have their letters of recommendation here for us to look over one more time."

"Surely these people are all known quantities?" asked d'Artagnan incredulously.

"For the most part," Treville replied evasively. "The King was rather insistent that we expand the entertainment beyond the usual."

"Such as?" inquired Athos, his mind already sorting through the possible problems that could present themselves with unknown persons roaming about the palace...possibly in costume.

Treville sighed. "Well, there is the group of gypsy acrobats...supposedly very talented. And the juggling bearded ladies-" Porthos shot him a look of horror. "Sorry, Porthos, I imagine they're all taken," Treville said with a grin. "You don't find a woman like that just anywhere. And the-," he stopped for an instant, then uncomfortably cleared his throat, "—dancing bear."

"The dancing bear?" echoed Porthos disbelievingly.

"Yes," murmured Treville. "I understand he came as a package deal with the jugglers. The King expressed particular interest in seeing that performance."

"Why would **anyone** think it is a good idea to have a bear at a ball for the King and his heir? No matter how tame?" asked d'Artagnan, shaking his head in consternation.

"Gentlemen, ours is not to reason why," stated the Captain ruefully.

"Ours is but to do—or die," concluded Athos gloomily. "So much for a night of revelry."

**Next** **time**-**what** has **Milady** **been** **up** **to?** **It** **may** **involve** **Michel**...


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter XXII...in which Michel meets Milady (you know they had to join forces...birds of a feather, as they say...)**

**CHAPTER XXII**

At the Apothecary Gaillard, Michel was in a foul mood. Not only did he have an unbelievably bad hangover, but Charlotte and her musketeer had succeeded in making a complete fool out of him last night-and that, he could not allow. It had taken him until early morning to wrest himself loose from the rope Athos had used to truss him up like a turkey, and until practically noon to get the smell of the outhouse off his skin. Even now, his nose wrinkled up when he sniffed his arm, although he was unsure if it was just an illusion at this point, or if he truly still smelled as horrible as he thought he did.

He picked up a bunch of lavender, looked at it thoughtfully, and quickly rubbed it over his head and torso, hoping to mask his scent a bit. He then lit a fragrant candle that Charlotte usually left burning on the counter, and unlocked the door to await his first customer.

The first few hours passed slowly, for most people in the city were busy preparing for the evening's festivities. Around 4 pm, there was a small flurry of mothers looking for medicine for their coughing children, followed by one elderly man in search of something to, as he phrased it delicately, "Add some—erm—excitement to the evening's activities? You see," he glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot, "I have a younger girlfriend." He leaned across the counter and whispered to Michel. "She's 55…got to show her that just because there's snow on the roof doesn't mean the fire's gone out in the furnace." He nudged Michel's arm. "You'll understand when you're my age, my boy…although I'm sure you've got no shortage of female companions now."

Michel had smiled understandingly, and given the man a concoction guaranteed to enhance his performance. "I've tried it out myself," he said with a wink. "Your lady friend will be singing your praises." The old man left, thanking him profusely and promising to return in several days with a blow-by-blow account of the evening's festivities."

"That's lovely…but not-" Michel's voice trailed off as the man slammed the door behind him. "-necessary." _Who am I fooling? Hearing his tale is probably the closest I'll get to any success with a woman tonight_. He imagined Charlotte flirting with Athos at the ball, and felt a fresh sense of rage course through his body. She was a deceitful little wench, and he would find some way to make her pay.

He looked up at the clock. _Thank God. Nearly 5 pm_. He began the procedures to close the shop for the day when the door once again opened, bringing in a fresh blast of ice cold air. He turned in annoyance, ready to upbraid the customer for leaving the door open so long, when he saw a gorgeous woman standing in front of him, looking forlorn. She was dressed in a becoming gown the colour of moss that Michel guessed had set her, or her patron, back a pretty penny. An expensive emerald necklace graced her neck, highlighting her beautiful green eyes. Dark, lustrous ringlets hung below her shoulders.

"I am so hoping you can help me," she began shyly, looking up at him through her long lashes. "My grandmother has been taken ill with a chest cold. I have just moved to Paris to help care for her, and I had no idea where to go for medicine. A neighbour recommended I come here and ask for—Michel? I was told he is quite an accomplished apothecary."

"I am the man you seek," replied Michel confidently.

She blushed in return. "I thought so. My neighbour described you very well. Dark hair, tall, deep brown eyes…handsome, courteous. This must be my lucky day," Michel, warming to her compliments, took her cloak. "Allow me to assist you. Please, sit and be comfortable by the fire." He quickly threw another log on the fire, which he had been preparing to bank for the night.

"But—" she faltered, "-it is nearly closing time, and I am sure you have family or friends-perhaps a special someone," she gave him a smile with a hint of flirtation, "to go home to. I cannot impose on you."

"Mademoiselle," responded Michel with a bow and flourish, "I am at your service." Going to the door, he flipped the sign to read "CLOSED" and turned to grin at her. "I have no one to focus on this evening except you."

"Well," she replied with a sultry look, her voice breathy, "I can see this **is** indeed my lucky day."

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When Constance and Charlotte arrived at the palace in their carriage, they were greeted by the familiar faces of Porthos and Treville. Porthos gave both women a playful grin, and called out, "These two look very suspicious, Captain. Perhaps we should search the carriage." Treville rolled his eyes, and spoke with perfect courtesy. "Please excuse Porthos, ladies. He is taking his job seriously for once." He waved the carriage through, and Constance and Charlotte alighted in the courtyard, hurrying through the light sleet into the east wing of the palace, attendants bearing their gowns behind them.

They climbed the stairs to emerge into the hall that held the Queen's rooms. Constance guided Charlotte into the first room on the right, which was a spacious, friendly chamber painted in a soothing pale lavender. "This is my room when I am in attendance on the Queen. You are welcome to dress here."

A knock came on the door, and Constance called, "Come in!" The door pushed open to admit Athos, who smiled at Charlotte. "I trust you are recovered from the adventures of the other evening, Mademoiselle?"

Constance gave Charlotte, then Athos, a look of scrutiny, but both ignored her glance, and Charlotte replied, "Yes, thank you. I am assuming you have come to school a city girl in the art of courtly dance?"

Eyes warming, Athos answered, "My duties will keep me occupied up until right before the ball, but Captain Treville has given me a half-hour break to allow me to keep a promise to a woman to whom I owe much. Come along, Mademoiselle." He offered her his arm, and glanced back at Constance as they left the room. "Don't worry, Madame Bonacieux. I will return her to your maternal care by the time the clock strikes half past five."

Athos led Charlotte down the hall, and guided her down a small side staircase that led to a small gallery lined with armour and weapons.

"A unique choice of venue for a dance lesson," teased Charlotte.

"I do best in a familiar setting, especially when teaching," replied Athos serenely. "Plus, this corridor is likely to be devoid of traffic, giving us the liberty to make fools of ourselves—although my goal is to teach you in thirty minutes how to be the dancer I think you can be."

She laughed. "Very optimistic."

"Perhaps you are rubbing off on me," he retorted. "Now, down to business. The most important principle of dance, and one that was drilled into my head _ad nauseum_ by my first dance instructor, Madame Berthe, is that eye contact must be maintained at all times." The corner of his mouth quirked up slightly. "An easier task for me tonight than at other times in the past."

He stepped closer and rested one hand at her waist, then took her right hand, enveloping it in his warm, confident grasp. "Put your left hand on my shoulder-mind the healing wound, someone spent quite a bit of effort coaxing that into healing-" he glanced down at her teasingly, "-and relax your lower body."

She softened her stance, and Athos gave her a look of approval. "Now, the minuet is likely to be the spotlight dance that we will be asked to take part in…the rest of it we can probably manage to give a miss, but this one will be a must. It's done in a ¾ time—are you familiar with music?"

"Actually, yes. I play the flute," admitted Charlotte. "Not as well as I'd like to, but I practice when I can."

"You are quite an accomplished young woman," he observed with admiration.

"I doubt I am of the sort you are used to." She frowned for an instant, and appeared troubled. "Monsieur, may I ask you a question?"

"Of course," he said easily. "What is it?"

"By having you serve as an escort to a shopkeeper's daughter, am I potentially-hurting your marriage prospects?"

Athos fought the urge to laugh. _If you only knew my attitude on marriage_. "Whatever do you mean?"

"I have heard it said," Charlotte said hesitation, "that the parents of eligible young noblewomen observe potential suitors very closely at all large social events, and that any-inappropriate behaviour is duly noted." She looked up at him, her face miserable. "While I very much enjoy your company, I could not bear to have my presence negatively impact your chances of –" she swallowed, "-making a successful match."

"And what has caused you to assume that I am in the market for such a match?" inquired Athos coolly.

_Oh no. I've said the wrong thing. _Charlotte averted her eyes, and struggled to reply. "It is just that you are—the sort of man any father would be glad to have his daughter marry."

"While I appreciate the compliment, Mademoiselle, I was married once, and am not anxious to enter into that state again anytime soon." In a matter of seconds, his manner had become more reserved, and his eyes took on that remote look that indicated he had reassumed the composed, neutral attitude which he usually demonstrated in his dealings with the world.

"Well then, you have set my mind at ease," replied Charlotte lightly, her heart sinking. _Someone has hurt him badly. What sort of woman would do such a thing?_ "On with the lesson. I don't want to cause you an injury tonight with my clumsy footwork."

Thirty minutes later, they had achieved enough progress that both Charlotte and Athos were reasonably sure that they could get through the dance without incident. Athos escorted her back to Constance's room, leaving her at the door. "I shall meet you at the staircase to the east wing, 7:30 sharp."

"Until then," replied Charlotte softly. "Thank you for your kindness in working with me on my dancing."

"It was my pleasure," murmured Athos, giving her a wistful smile as he turned and strode down the hall.

**Next** **time..more of the villains...and more of** **the activity at the palace...**


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter XXIII...in which we see more of Michel and Milady...and Anne makes a disturbing discovery, prompting her to ask for Constance's aid in getting a message to Aramis.**

**CHAPTER XXIII**

Michel raced around the shop, preparing for the return of the mysterious green-eyed woman, who had only given her name as Anne. He prided himself on his success in convincing her to spend New Year's Eve with him. She had begged an hour to return home to her grandmother to make sure that she was comfortable. "If she is worse, I must remain with her. It would be cruel to leave her alone." Michel had reluctantly concurred, but hoped fervently that the old woman was rallying.

When a soft tap came at the door, he sprang up and unlocked it, admitted the raven-haired woman, her hair tousled by the wind, and her skin flushed with happiness.

"I am so relieved!" she cried, throwing her arms around Michel. "It was like a miracle! A half an hour after she took her first dose of your medicine, Grandmother felt well enough to get up and make some soup! And as luck would have it, my uncle Edgar and his wife have decided to spend the night with her. So, I am free for the evening!" She smiled at him, and Michel began to hope against hope that he would see the new year in with the warm body of a woman pressed against him in bed. "You have amazing skill," she purred, her hands toying with his shirt. "There must be some way I can thank you."

"Oh, I'll think of something," replied Michel suavely. "Would you care for a glass of wine, Anne?" He indicated a small table in the far corner, which was covered with a white tablecloth and set for two. A bottle of wine was set in the middle, surrounded by platters of cheese, meat, and bread.

"That would be lovely," replied Milady with a brilliant smile. "You definitely know how to treat a woman," she added in a silky voice, slipping her arm around his waist and leading him to the table.

When they were both seated, Milady rested her chin in her hands and gazed at Michel admiringly as he poured the wine. "You have a lovely shop. You must be quite a businessman! After all, you are so young to have such a successful enterprise."

"Well, actually," Michel cleared his throat. "I am the chief apprentice to Monsieur Gaillard. It has been-," he lowered his voice confidentially, as though in the midst of a crowd of people, "-our understanding that I may possibly inherit the business some day."

"So he has no children?" asked Milady innocently.

"Well, he has one," conceded Michel. "A rather empty-headed daughter who seems to spend most of her time lately chasing after musketeers. It's been quite the gossip in the neighbourhood—different men coming and going at odd hours," he added with a significant look.

"Surely her father is not pleased with that turn of events?" frowned Milady.

"Well, the girl is deceitful, and she has tried to turn her father against me. I was—" his voice cracked with false emotion as he sniffed dramatically, "—like a son to him. But now, he has nothing good to say to me."

"Hmm…" mused Milady thoughtfully. "Then you must get back in his good graces, and expose the daughter for the evil wench that she is." She paused a moment, then continued with a look of sympathy. "I was in a very grave situation some time ago with a man who tried to ruin my reputation and destroy my life—all because I had fended off the lecherous advances of his brother. Perhaps I can help you turn the tables to your advantage."

She smiled and raised her glass. "But first, a toast to the New Year…and hopefully a brighter future for both of us." As they both drank, Milady's mind began crafting a plan that she hoped would secure the downfall of her husband, as well as Charlotte—_the little vixen, chasing after Athos like an idiot. _As Michel grinned at her with a lustful look in her eyes, she thought idly, i_f this one annoys me, I will add him to the list...especially if he is a tiresome lover._

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Porthos and Treville had so far had a smooth stint at the guard gate. All who passed through had authentic invitations, or were court musicians who were well known to them. Porthos cuffed one trumpet player playfully as the man leaned off the passing wagon, blowing an ear-splitting note at him. "Save it for later, Jean!" he called out as the wagon rumbled on. The man saluted him with a wave, then went back to warming up this instruments.

"So far, so good," he said with a raised eyebrow, looking at Treville. "Perhaps all this security was much ado about nothing."

"You will forgive me if I wait to celebrate," replied Treville absently, scanning the line of carriages and wagons that was in front of them, patiently waiting to present credentials to enter the palace.

A large wagon rumbled up, and Treville hailed it. The driver saluted him with a cheerful wave. "Evenin', gents. The fantastic, rarely seen, bearded juggling ladies from the highest reaches of the Pyrenees, reporting for service." He leaned over and muttered to Treville in a low voice, "I drew the short straw with this job. Go ahead, 'ave a look. But don't say I didn't warn you." Treville nodded at Porthos, who walked around the back of the wagon and lifted the large canvas flap. Staring back at him were a dozen of the ugliest women he had ever seen. They were arrayed in colourful headscarves and full calico skirts, and sported multiple layers of gold necklaces, with long earrings made of ornate gold filigree gracing their earlobes. Each had heavy makeup and a sparse, but neatly trimmed beard.

One blew a kiss at Porthos, stealthily adjusting the hemline of her dress to display several inches of an undeniably shapely, but very hairy, leg. Porthos grimaced and nodded briefly to be polite, then quickly lowered the drape and returned to Treville, shaking his head in dismay.

"He's right," intoned Porthos in a low voice. "Those are some ugly women. I hope they juggle better than they look."

"The dancing bear?" inquired Treville of the driver. "Oh, she's in the wagon behind us. Name's Petunia. A feisty one, she is …although the girls had her under control quite nicely at the last show. Only two people injured at that one," he finished affably. "Lowest numbers all year."

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At the group of rooms that comprised the Dauphin's suite, d'Artagnan and Aramis stood guard. D'Artagnan noticed Aramis was uncharacteristically edgy, and after he paced back and forth twenty times in a row, d'Artagnan looked at him in annoyance. "What is wrong with you? You're acting quite weird tonight."

"Yeah, well, perhaps I've got a lot on my mind," snapped Aramis, displaying a moodiness that only came out when he was in his worse state of mind. He ran his hands through his hair in distraction. "It's not like we have the future heir as our responsibility or anything-an innocent baby who has already had one attempt on his life."

"Aramis," responded d'Artagnan pointedly, "We do this sort of work every day. Why the nervous breakdown now?"

"It's different when there is a child on the line," Aramis muttered. "Although I don't expect you to understand. You've probably already forgotten about baby Henry and Agnes."

D'Artagnan instinctively knew that Aramis was baiting him, hoping to force a physical altercation, but he had no idea why. He held his tongue, hoping that his brother would calm down soon. If not, this was going to be a very long night.

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Anne sat in front of the mirror trimmed in gold leaf that topped her ornate dressing table, patiently enduring having her being crafted into the elaborate hairstyle that was the current French fashion. In truth, she had always found the capricious changes in style and dress that characterized the French court immensely tiresome.

At such times, she tried to make the innumerable adjustments of the hairstylists pass by more quickly by reliving happier periods of her life. She often thought of the few short days she had passed in the company of Aramis and his friends. Although the situation had been dangerous, with her life legitimately at risk, the freedom of being able to wear a simple dress and leave her hair down had been intoxicating. Perhaps that was what had caused her to allow-no, if she was honest, **encourage**-Aramis to bed her.

_Aramis_. The thought of seeing him at the ball tonight filled her with trepidation. What if her face betrayed her? She was really not at all sure she could trust herself enough to make eye contact with him. Just last night, her infant son had been looking at her with the solemn, wide-eyed wonder babies often display. She had inadvertently laughed, and a sweet little grin had appeared in response, lighting up his face. In that instant, he had reminded her so much of Aramis that it had taken her breath away.

Her hair finally finished, she dismissed her ladies, desiring a moment or two to compose herself before joining Louis to survey the preparations for the ball. He seemed to excel in grating on her nerves on grand occasions like this, and she always needed time to mentally preparing for the petulant or ridiculous behaviour he was likely to display. He had spent much of the week in conference with the master of dance, helping to plan an elaborate ballet that was to be staged to celebrate the New Year-the first full year of the Dauphin's reign.

Approaching her bedside, she reached by reflex for her prayer book, then drew back as she remembered the last time she had picked it up, only to discover the sinister message hidden inside. _You really should be more careful. After all, I know the truth._ She felt like these two sentences were now imprinted on her soul. They were the first thing that came to mind when she woke in the morning, and the last thought in her mind before dropping off to sleep. They ran amok through her head, cunningly ambushing her at the least expected time—when she was playing with her baby, sewing with her ladies, or enduring one of the King's tantrums.

_Distraction. I need a distraction_, she thought desperately. _Something to soothe my mind_. Her eye fell on the beautifully bound blue leather Bible that her mother had given her on her tenth birthday. Fingering the gilt pages lovingly, she thought of her mother, who had died in childbirth several months after Anne had turned ten. Her eyes began to fill. _What I would give to have her arms around me just one more time, and to hear her sweet voice tell me how proud she is of me. She never knew I became Queen of France, and she never got to hold her beautiful little grandson. _

Anne impulsively opened the pages, and leafed through them. She remembered as if it was yesterday that sunny day in Spain. She had been the apple of her mother's eye as a young girl, and she recalled climbing up on the big four poster bed with her heavily pregnant mother, snuggling close against her. Her mother had put her arm around her, and told her with a smile, "I have a special gift for your birthday, Ana Maria. It is a tradition in my family that a mother, when she gives birth to a daughter, chooses a special Bible for the baby. In fact, I had already had my eye on this one before you were born. Every month without fail, until today, the day you turn ten, I have underlined a verse that is close to my heart. There are now 120 verses so marked in this Bible that represent my hopes and love for you. Now that you are ten, your father and I will begin the serious undertaking of finding a suitable match for you." Ana had buried her face in her mother's lap, as she did every time this subject came up.

"God willing," her mother continued tenderly, stroking her hair, "this man will be good and kind, and you will not venture too far from us—but we must be prepared for whatever God has in store for us, darling. When you are far away from us, and your soul is troubled, I want you to open this book, and read the passages I have underlined. In this way, you will be able to hear my voice, and know that I am thinking of you—and loving you always."

Anne remembered the agonizing pain of sitting through her mother's funeral. She had clutched the Bible against her thin little chest, closing her eyes and hoping it would all go away. Somehow the comforting scent of the leather-not unlike Aramis' uniform-had soothed her roiling emotions. She scanned the pages, seeking one of her favourite quotes in Galatians. There. _But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith_. As she heard Louis shrieking at the top of his lungs about some catastrophe involving costumes for the ballet, she thought wryly, _I have longsuffering down pat, Mama…and I try to have faith, just as you taught me. Aramis has given me love, and my son joy. I am not always gentle, even when I know I should be….and goodness and peace-well, I don't think I've mastered those two yet, especially peace. _

_Peace._ She turned the pages aimlessly, looking for another word of consolation. All of a sudden, her hand froze, and her blood ran cold. Her mother had never used anything but black ink in the book, and Anne had never written in it at all, keeping it a shrine to her mother's memory. However, on the page lying in front of her, circled in bold red ink, was another verse from Galatians, 5:19. _Now the works of the flesh are manifest, which are these: adultery, fornication, uncleanliness, lasciviousness. _ Scrawled above it were two simple words that struck terror into her._** I know**_. She panicked, flipping through the chapter only to find another verse circled in red. _Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a ma__n soweth, that shall he also reap. _Next to it, four stark words. _**A**__**nd so shall you.**_

She slammed the book shut, and her heart began to race. At that moment, Constance entered the room, and was alarmed to see the queen's face a deadly white. "Your Majesty, what is amiss?" she cried, hurrying to Anne's side. The queen looked at her, clearly stricken with fear, and seized Constance's hands.

"Dear faithful Constance, d'Artagnan told me once that I could trust you with my life. Can I? I want to think I can. I must trust someone, for I fear I am in real danger."

"Danger?" echoed Constance in concern. "Well, you must tell the King…he—"

"No!" exclaimed Anne desperately. "The King cannot, must not know. **No matter what,** Constance. Promise me."

"Your Majesty, I am your lady, and my allegiance is to you. If you say it must be so, I will abide by your wishes."

Anne looked at her searchingly, then asked in a low voice, "Constance, do you know Spanish?"

"Why no, Your Majesty," replied Constance, perplexed at the turn in the conversation. "Why do you ask?"

"I need for you to deliver a message in that language, so I will make it simple. Two words. _Alguien lo sabe_. Can you say it?"

Constance repeated it several times, until she was sure she had the pronunciation down.

"Well done," said Anne absently, twisting a handkerchief nervously in her hands. "Now this is the really important part, Constance. The message must be delivered discreetly…to Aramis—and to him alone. Along with this." She slipped a small, rather ornate key into Constance's hand, and closed her fingers around it. "This is a key to the staircase from the chapel to my sitting room. It must not**-must not**—fall into the wrong hands."

"You can trust me, Your Majesty," replied Constance stoutly, trying to quell the fear roiling inside here. "I will deliver it in utter discretion this evening."

"Thank you," answered the Queen, her eyes filling with tears. "I will not forget this, Constance."

**Next time-Charlotte finally gets to appear before Athos at the ball.**

**Thank you, my patient readers, for allowing me to detour a bit with these last two chapters...I've set in motion a lot of moving parts, and it took a bit of time to set the stage..but we are getting there, I promise!**

**A big hug to DarkDivine131 for helping me with my Spanish!**


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter XXIV...in which Charlotte and Athos finally meet at the ball...For those of you who love Aramis and Anne-you've been so patient while I've neglected you! Your time will come, but not quite yet...the Athos fans must be appeased first, for they are hungry...**

**CHAPTER XXIV**

An hour later, Treville and Porthos had ushered the last of the guests and entertainers through the gate. The gypsy acrobats were warming up in the long colonnade that adjoined the courtyard, practicing one of the signature parts of their act—the human pyramid. As the two musketeers watched, a slim teenaged boy scrambled up to the top and stood proudly, saluting the imaginary crowd. The tower of men then rapidly disassembled. Porthos shook his head. "That's spectacular, but I'd hate to be the guy on top…what if someone loses their grip?"

"I suppose that's why they are performing for the King," responded Treville thoughtfully. "They are clearly professionals." He suddenly saw a knot of activity around the large, elaborately carved door to the entrance hall. "It looks like the procession of guests is about to begin. That's our cue to take up our positions inside." The two musketeers threaded through the crowd, intent on the task ahead of them.

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Charlotte sat patiently in her chemise as a woman worked on her thick auburn hair. The hairstylist had wanted to arrange her hair in an elaborate bouffant style, but she had refused, requesting instead a simple chignon. The stylist had balked, smoothly saying, "I cannot hold you at fault for your ignorance of court customs, Mademoiselle, but such a plain hairstyle is just not done. You would be the subject of ridicule."

"Then so be it," responded Charlotte stubbornly. "I do not want to look like anyone other than myself. Such a style as you describe it is not me."

"On your head be it," sighed the woman, reluctantly brushing Charlotte's hair. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

Despite her obvious distaste for the task, the stylist had succeeded in arranging Charlotte's hair in a classic, but elegant, chignon. Enchanted by the final result, Charlotte had agreed to have several wisps of hair curled on either side of her face, softening the look.

Constance came into the room, her expression having changed in the short time she had been to check on the Queen. _She seems distracted_, Charlotte thought—_as if something has upset her. _

"Is everything alright?" inquired Charlotte in a low tone.

"Of course," said Constance easily, displaying the same too-bright smile she had produced when Charlotte had mentioned d'Artagnan's name several days ago. "Let's get you into this dress," she continued on briskly, schooling her face into a semblance of gaiety. "Arms up!"

Charlotte stood in her thin chemise and obediently held up her arms, allowing two servants to assist Constance in easing the dress over her shoulders. The folds of champagne-colored silk fell in cascades from Charlotte's narrow waist, and as Constance adjusted her into the bodice and laced her stays, Charlotte turned to stare at her reflection in the mirror, mesmerized by the transformation.

"I don't even know who that is," she said in a whisper. "I look so—different."

"You look lovely," said Constance, well satisfied with the end result. "Can I help you with your jewellery?"

"I think I can manage," replied Charlotte. "I have just a pendant and earrings my mother left me." She fastened the necklace around her neck, and slipped her earrings into her ears. Suddenly, she froze. "Shoes!" she exclaimed. "I forgot about shoes! I can't attend in stockings!"

Constance smiled. "Actually, I was waiting to give you this. Athos asked me to pass it on to you just after you were dressed. He wanted to make some small contribution to your apparel tonight."

She handed Charlotte a small box adorned with a pale blue ribbon. Charlotte had never received a gift other than on her birthday or Christmas, and found that her hands were shaking slightly as she untied the ribbon. Opening the box, she exhaled, barely aware that she had been holding her breath. "Oh, Constance—they are beautiful," she beamed at her friend. "How kind of him!" Nestled in the box were a pair of delicate shoes made out of the same silk material as her dress. They were embroidered with just a hint of pale blue sequins, and fit Charlotte perfectly.

"How did he know my shoe size?" asked Charlotte in amazement. Constance smiled indulgently. "Athos is a very resourceful man. I've seen him gather information much more sensitive than a shoe size without anyone being the wiser." She looked at the clock on the mantel. "Speaking of which, we need to get you to the staircase! It's almost 7:30!"

Seizing Charlotte's arm, Constance hurried her down the hallway. "It wouldn't do at all to be late."

"Slow down!" begged Charlotte. "I don't want to trip and tear this dress before I've even had chance to show it off."

Constance obligingly slowed her pace, and stopped when they reached the top of the staircase. "Is he there?" Charlotte hissed nervously. "I do not want to go to down if he is not there yet."

"Oh, he's there," replied Constance, peering around the wall. "And he looks very handsome." Charlotte stood on her tiptoes, balancing with her hand on Constance's shoulder. She spied Athos immediately, his dark blue dress uniform cloak and black leather marking him out as a ruggedly masculine contrast to the legions of men in lace collars and brocade breeches. A petite blonde with ringlet curls and a daringly low-cut powder blue gown stumbled against him, seemingly on accident but with obviously practiced skill. Charlotte frowned as the blonde clutched at him, feigning dizziness. Athos gave the woman a neutral smile, then called over a junior member of the regiment, neatly handing her over while keeping his blue eyes alert.

"Well done," murmured Constance. Looking at Charlotte, she suddenly squeezed her hand, and blurted out, "He's waiting for you. Enjoy every moment, darling. Go on." She gently pushed her forward, smiling through the tears that pricked at her eyes. "You can tell me all about it later." As Charlotte gave her a grateful look and began to carefully navigate the staircase, Constance turned and fled down the hall, slipping into an empty room and closing the door. Back against the door, she slid to the ground, tears streaming down her face_. Why was life so unfair? She should have been by Charlotte's side in a similar gown, anticipating d'Artagnan's eyes lighting up when he saw her_. Instead, she suddenly felt very tired and very, very old.

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Athos stood to the left at the bottom of the staircase, wondering why in the world he felt nervous. _You are not sixteen,_ he told himself firmly. _Stop acting like a teenager mooning over a girl at the market_. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he looked up to see Charlotte descending the stairs, and his heart nearly stopped. The gown she was wearing fit her exquisitely, and she looked completely and utterly gorgeous, her face flushed with excitement and her beautiful chestnut hair elegantly styled in a chignon at the nape of her neck. _Can this be the same woman I saw bending over the herb-grinding table several nights ago, face lined with exhaustion?_ He then looked closer, and noticed that she was concentrating very carefully on each step, obviously afraid of tripping on her long skirt. Without thinking, he took the steps two at a time, arriving at her side in seconds.

"I'm here," he said quietly. "Take my arm. I won't let you fall." She looked up, and was transfixed by the soft vulnerability in his deep blue eyes. This particular look was so completely different from the cool gaze of the competent, reserved, everyday Athos that it took her breath away. The chink in his armour was there for just an instant, but the impact of it caused her heart to pound heavily in her chest, and she felt slightly lightheaded.

As she reached for his arm, her eyes still searching his, he grasped her left hand for an instant, turning the palm up so he could see her wrist. He then gave an inexplicable sigh of relief.

"What?" she asked, mystified by his behaviour. "Is something wrong?"

He gave her a smile of such magnetic intensity that she again felt a bit dizzy. "I was just checking."

"For what?"

"The little heart-shaped scar on your left wrist," he said softly. "I noticed it the first day we met. That is how I know that the devastatingly beautiful woman I am looking at is the gentle, kind, and very witty Charlotte that spends her days toiling away in an apothecary shop. No dream would have that scar."

He guided her down the stairs, her hand securely in his, then glanced at the crowd congregating at the door to the ballroom. Steering her in the opposite direction, he led her through a nondescript door into the long gallery where they had practiced dancing earlier. "We have a few minutes. Treville has assigned me to watch over the King, so once the ball starts, I will be on guard duty." He took both her hands in his, and faced her. "But for right now," he said softly, "I want to have the luxury of having you all to myself, with no interruptions."

"So," Charlotte said lightly, "I'm intrigued that you said you knew I wasn't a dream by my scar. Have you dreamt of me often?" She offered him a mock provocative smile, seeking to defuse the intensity of the emotion that she sensed was threatening to overwhelm both of them

"Not often enough," he replied hoarsely. "God, you are so-ravishing, Charlotte. Your eyes, your hair, your skin-" he let go of one of her hands to trail his fingers along one of her creamy white shoulders, absently toying with her necklace as he skimmed down below her collarbone. "Even your jewels—they are simple, but elegant. Like you." He continued to gaze at her, seemingly entranced. Charlotte reached a small hand up and cupped his chin, revelling in the feel of his beard against her fingers. _His eyes had the faintest hint of—was it-desire? _

"Your eyes seem very fascinated with my—neckline. Are you quite sure the pendant is all that you find intriguing about the area above my bodice?" She slipped him a mischievous smile as he coloured slightly. "Am I that obvious?" he said dryly with a rueful grin. "You must admit, Mademoiselle, that your everyday garb has done quite a masterful job of hiding the charms which are now so—manifest, shall we say?" He dropped his eyes meaningfully to the swell of her breasts, then raised them to fix her with a look laced with pure sensuality. "I had no idea you were so—voluptuous."

As she flushed, he gathered her into his arms and bent to place his mouth on hers, wholeheartedly convinced he would aim for a sweet, but fairly chaste kiss, not wanting to take more liberties than appropriate. However, he quickly abandoned that plan when he felt her relax into his arms, slipping her hands around him to draw closer. After the briefest contact, she surrendered to him and parted her lips slightly, prompting him to instantly deepen the kiss, exploring her mouth gently, but thoroughly.

Her response, tentative at first, instinctively began to match his, stoking his desire until he found himself pressing her against the wall, her hands winding through his hair as she gave a soft moan of pleasure. Feeling as if he was coming close to losing control, he forced himself to break away, breathing raggedly as he leaned his head against the wall, his breath stirring the damp tendrils of hair curling against her neck. "We should-probably-"

She looked up at him, her palms cupping his face as she struggled to control her own emotions. "Yes- If we stay much longer, we might never make it-and I don't want to be blamed for you neglecting your duty to His Majesty. But I must say," she smiled up at him sweetly, "you show great promise in fulfilling your duty to me tonight."

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Now that Michel had half a bottle of wine in him, he was talking expansively, giving Milady a great deal of information, with very little prodding.

"Yes, old man Gaillard has been ill for some time now," he said with a sigh. "The burden of keeping the business expanding has fallen on me. It is fortunate that I have been more than up to the task. In fact, receipts are up 75%..."

"So, do you have any idea what ails him?" asked Milady, cutting him off abruptly.

"Who?" asked Michel, momentarily confused.

"Your master, silly," chided Milady_. More like you idiot._

"Oh…not entirely sure," replied Michel vaguely. "I expect it may have something to do with his heart…his daughter has been dosing him with foxglove daily now for some months."

"Foxglove," said Milady thoughtfully. "Isn't that a dangerous medication?"

"Can be," answered Michel, smoothly capturing her hand and kissing it. "It's lucky for the boss that his daughter is reasonably competent at what she does…although I daresay I'm much more accomplished. After all, the majority of customers ask for me when they come in."

"Lucky for him that she doesn't want him dead," said Milady quietly. "I suppose a less dutiful daughter could manage that very easily. Hopefully he will never get on her bad side."

"I doubt that will ever happen," replied Michel, rising to pull her into his arms. "Even with the gossip about the musketeers, he thinks the world of Charlotte. But enough about the two of them-let's talk about the two of us. My bed has been remarkably cold the past several weeks, and I was hoping you could assist me in warming it."

"As I told you earlier," Milady murmured, "I'm yours for the night….and I do owe you an enormous debt of thanks for restoring my grandmother to health. You said you had something in mind?" she looked up at him with mock innocence.

"I have several things in mind," he muttered, sweeping her up into his arms. "But they all involve a great deal less clothes than what we have on now." Pushing open the door to his small room, he lowered her onto the bed, pawing clumsily at her bodice.

"Slow down!" snapped Milady, realizing too late that she sounded like an impatient schoolteacher. "What I mean is," she recovered smoothly, "we have all night—why rush a good thing?"

He gazed down at her, grinning at her stupidly. "You're right. I plan to keep you busy all night long, so I hope you have the energy to keep up with me"

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Ten minutes later, Michel was snoring, his head heavy on Milady's chest. She shoved him off her impatiently. _That was worse than I expected_, she thought in disgust. _That man couldn't pleasure a woman if you gave him a diagram. _ For just an instant, her mind flitted back to the first time she and Athos had made love. He had been nearly wild with desire, but had had the strength of will to hold back until she had achieved her own release. She had never forgotten that. No other man had ever cared so much about her pleasure, or enjoyed so thoroughly thinking of new ways to bring her to the brink of ecstasy. She shook her head, trying to ignore the voice in her brain that spoke up to goad her at moments like this.

**_Oh he cared about you all right…he cared so much that he left you to die, hanging from a tree. _**

_He didn't want to—I know he didn't! He had to—it was his duty as comte, to dispense justice. And it was all his stupid brother's fault, anyway. He just couldn't keep his mouth shut about things that didn't concern him. Thomas. If it hadn't been for him, I would still be the Comtesse de la Fère._

**_Yes, but you have been a thick-waisted dowager with five children by now_**, her brain told her smugly. **_You know how much children annoy you._**

_Athos adored me though, and he would have been a good father. He would have lavished them with love, and made sure they didn't irritate me too much. And I would never have let my body go. Not with Athos to warm my bed._

She rose from the mattress, being careful not to rouse the sleeping apprentice. Slipping on her chemise and cloak, she walked out into the shop and stood in the centre of the main room, closing her eyes and inhaling the scent of drying herbs. _So this is where you drudge away, Charlotte Gaillard, likely daydreaming about Athos, and hoping against hope that you'll somehow manage to coax him into bedding you. We'll see about that. _

Milady de Winter opened her eyes. All of a sudden, it all became crystal clear. She had an idea—no, it was more than a mere idea—it was a profoundly simple, but entirely devastating plan—a way to shatter Athos so completely that revenge would be sweeter than sweet. And if she took down Charlotte Gaillard in the process…so much the better. She smiled and began to systematically search the shop, familiarizing herself with the neatly labelled contents of every bottle and jar. _Oh, I will make you pay, Athos-and you will pay a very, very dear price for your callousness._

**Next time-Aramis receives a message from Anne, Athos receives an award from the King, and yes-Athos and Charlotte will finally get that dance in...although hopefully the events in this chapter were enough to tide you over for now ;-)**


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter XV...in which Constance and d'Artagnan meet by chance, and Athos is named as a godfather to the Dauphin.**

**CHAPTER XV**

Wiping her tears, Constance took a deep breath in and stood up. _Alright, you've had a good cry. Enough. The Dauphin needs you. The Queen needs you. _She pushed the door open and walked down the hall, automatically making her way to the infant heir's suite. _Aramis. She had to find him and deliver the message_.

A dark-haired small boy in the livery of the Dauphin's household nearly ran into her as she turned a corner. "Madame Bonacieux!" he exclaimed hastily, his brown eyes remorseful. "Please excuse my clumsiness. I did not see you."

She managed to summon up a smile. Gabriel Delacroix was the son of a distant cousin of the King. He had joined the Dauphin's staff as a page several weeks before Christmas, soon after his father's sudden death from pneumonia. As luck would have it, Louis had been in a benevolent mood the day he had received the letter from Gabriel's mother begging for a position for her boy, and had readily agreed to have Gabriel join his son's staff.

Gabriel was a kind and intelligent boy, and had quickly become a favourite with both Constance and baby Louis. He had often helped care for his younger siblings at home, and was quite good at getting the baby to smile or settle when he was out of sorts.

"It is I who should have been paying attention. Where are you off to?"

"I thought I would fetch another blanket for Louis, in case it gets cold tonight. The fresh laundry never came up this afternoon."

"Go on, then," Constance said kindly. "Just make sure you stop by the kitchen and have the cook give you a snack. My orders."

The boy flashed her a grin, and bowed, dashing off down the hallway.

Making the last turn, Constance stopped in her tracks when she saw the well-built man with the shoulder-length dark hair standing guard. He was dressed in dark brown leather with the distinctive pauldron proudly displayed on his shoulder. _D'Artagnan. Not tonight. This is too cruel! I can't face him, not now._ She began backing up, uncertain of what to do, when he turned and met her gaze, his soulful brown eyes warming the very marrow of her bones.

"D'Artagnan," she whispered.

"Constance. I- How are you?" he asked softly. "You look well."

"I'm-happy," she replied, trying to stop her voice from trembling. "The Queen is very good to me. And the Dauphin-he's a beautiful, beautiful baby, d'Artagnan. You never saw such a sweet child. Have you been-" she cleared her throat, buying time to quell her emotions, "-assigned to guard duty here?"

"I have," he answered. "Aramis and myself, that is."

Constance glanced around her. "Aramis? Where is he?"

"He went to check on the security of the nursery," said d'Artagnan, shaking his head. "He has been so paranoid tonight. I don't know what's gotten into him."

"Perhaps I should go find him," blurted out Constance.

"I'll go with you," said d'Artagnan, relieved to have a chance to find his friend, who had been gone for a good twenty minutes.

"No!" Constance was quick to cover up her vehement reply. "I mean, the Queen has a rule…only one person who is not a staff member allowed in the nursery at a time."

"But I'm practically a staff member," protested d'Artagnan. "How much closer can I be to the King? I put my life on the line for him every day!"

"Sorry," answered Constance firmly. "Queen's rules." She slipped through the door, shutting it soundly behind her.

D'Artagnan shook his head._ Everyone is acting oddly tonight. It must be a full moon._

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Constance padded into the nursery to find Aramis standing by the window, holding his son and singing to him softly. The moonlight framed them both in a soft glow, and the baby was staring intently at the man holding him, one small hand stretching up to touch the musketeer's beard. Aramis laughed, the joyous, deep laugh that that usually warmed Constance's heart. Tonight, however, it struck a chord of uneasy fear inside her heart.

"Aramis," she said reproachfully, walking over to him and laying a hand on his arm.

"What?" he gave her his trademark charming smile, then transferred his gaze back to the baby, resuming his singing.

"You can't. You just can't." she hated herself for having to say it, but it was true. He was risking everything by his impulsive desire to see his son. "Besides, I have strict instructions from the Queen to give you a message—for your ears only."

He suddenly gave her his full attention, instantly on alert. "The Queen? What message?"

Constance leaned over, and whispered in his ear, "Alguien lo sabe." _Someone knows_.

Aramis felt the blood drain out of his face, and handed Constance the baby, leaning against the wall to support himself. "What else did she say?" he murmured, his voice low and desperate.

"That's it," Constance answered with regret. "But she asked me to give you this. It is a key to the staircase from the chapel to her sitting room. "

She pressed the key into his hand, and Aramis closed his fist around it, clenching the key so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He brought his hand to his lips, and shut his eyes, emotion overcoming him. _Please, Lord. Anything but them. I will gladly sacrifice myself—just keep them safe from harm._

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An hour later, Athos and Charlotte were seated side by side, at a table just below the King, enjoying the sumptuous dinner. Glancing at the head table thoughtfully, Charlotte asked, "So, do you have any idea when the King will call you forward to be acknowledged?"

"No," responded Athos slowly, taking a sip of wine and setting his goblet down carefully. "And even if I did, he would probably decide at the last minute to change something. When dealing with His Majesty, it is best to be-flexible, shall we say?"

Charlotte decided that he was being politically correct, and guessed that the King's fickle approach to life probably made dealing with him on a day to day basis mentally exhausting.

"You are good men," she said quietly, putting her hand over his. "All of you. His Majesty's subjects, and I include myself in this, should be grateful they have you musketeers to risk your lives on a daily basis in order to keep our country stable."

"Well, it is what we accept when we take our commission," he answered, his gaze direct and honest.

"That does not make it any less noble," she responded gently. "Probably more, in fact."

"It has been a very long time," Athos murmured, pressing his lips to her hand, "since anyone has called me noble."

"Then I shall make it a habit, until you become convinced of it," replied Charlotte, her eyes warming. "For I think you have somehow been led to think you are less than the finest and truest man I have ever met. So, I believe I will make you my personal reclamation project." She smiled at him, and gently ran her fingers along the nape of his neck. "I have to warn you, though—-it may involve hours of intensive one-on-one therapy."

He answered her by kissing her other hand. "I have one question for you before I agree." As he gazed at her intently, a slow grin spread across his face. "When can we start?"

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Meanwhile, outside the Dauphin's suite of rooms, Aramis had emerged, white-faced and shaky. After one look at his friend's face, d'Artagnan's mood turned in an instant from annoyance to concern.

"What's wrong?" he asked urgently. "Is the Dauphin safe? Is Constance safe?"

Aramis gave him an empty stare, and d'Artagnan gripped his arms. "Aramis! Talk to me!"

"They're—fine," he said slowly, then took a deep breath and tucked something into his pocket.

"What is that?" d'Artagnan's sharp voice caused Aramis' head to jerk up.

"Nothing," he said defensively. "Everything's fine. I was just helping Constance settle some things."

"Yeah—okay," grunted d'Artagnan, giving Aramis a cold glance that let him know that their youngest didn't believe a word he'd heard.

They resumed their positions, an uncomfortable chasm of silence separating the two musketeers.

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As dinner finished, the King stood and motioned for the musicians to take a break. He then turned to Athos and signalled for him to approach the head table. Athos gave Charlotte a rueful look, and stood up, wishing this part of the evening was already over. He always hated being the centre of attention, but this ceremony was going to be particularly uncomfortable, especially with his knowledge of the true paternity of the Dauphin.

The one saving grace of the whole awkward situation was that Aramis wasn't here to see it. Although his friend had not said a word about Athos being named a godfather to the heir to throne, Athos instinctively knew that it bothered Aramis more than he would ever admit. Had Aramis been the one to be injured in the aborted kidnapping, he could have been standing in Athos' place, assured of being a special person in his son's life forever. But by a twist of fate, however, Athos was now godfather to the future King.

He stood at attention next to the King, back straight and uniform impeccable, a model of Musketeer decorum. Louis placed his hand on Athos' shoulder, and began to speak, his voice choking with emotion. "I would like to acknowledge our honoured guest this evening… a man whose bravery has directly affected the course of French history. I am speaking of Athos, of the regiment of Captain Treville, King's Musketeers. He singlehandedly—" _(not quite_, thought Athos) "-foiled a vile conspiracy that threatened the life of the Dauphin. It is because of him that the heir to the throne is safe today. Captain Treville, would you join us?"

Treville made his way through the crowd to stand at Athos' side. "Captain, your regiment has shown time and time again that it represents the very epitome of loyalty, duty, and bravery. I would like to present to you this framed citation, honouring your men for faithful service to your King."

As the crowd applauded, Treville bowed to the King. "You are too kind, Your Majesty. It is our pleasure to serve you."

Louis then turned to Athos. "There is really no way I can adequately express my thanks to you. However, it is my wish that you have a permanent position of importance in my son's life, so you have been named as an additional godfather to the Dauphin."

Athos bowed. "This is an honour I do not deserve, Your Majesty. I wish it to be noted that Aramis, my comrade, also risked his life for the Dauphin. It was just a twist of fate that caused myself to be wounded rather than him." He noticed to his dismay that Louis was no longer listening, but was signalling to one of his footmen to approach the table. The man approached, bowed, and stood with a box in his hand, which he opened in front of the King.

"I also wish to present you with a title than is very meaningful to the House of Bourbon. My grandfather, King Antoine of Navarre, had an attempt on his life foiled by a brave soldier who stopped the assassin right before he reached the King. This soldier was given the title of Defender of the Throne. My father, during his reign, also had such a loyal man whose service to the King merited such an honour. And now, Athos," the King reached into the box and lifted out a nine inch dagger, the blade shining in the light of the candelabra that had been placed on the dais, "I present you with the title of Defender of the Throne, and gift you with this dagger. May you live long to fiercely defend your country."

For once, Athos was almost speechless. The weapon was truly a work of art. The metal of the blade was thin, yet strong, and when the King laid it in his palm, it sat perfectly balanced, as if it had been forged for Athos to wield. The pommel was adorned with a gold relief of the seal of the House of Bourbon, ornamented with inlaid rubies and sapphires, which sparkled like so many points of light as Athos slowly turned it over.

"Your Majesty, this is too generous-I can't-"

"You can, and you will," replied Louis magnanimously. "With the heartfelt thanks of myself and the Queen."

Athos looked over to see Queen Anne, tears glistening in her eyes, lay a hand on her heart. Overcome by the raw emotion in her face, he could but nod and bow to the King, murmuring his appreciation for the honour. As the applause continued, he and Treville stepped down from the table and resumed their places.

As he sat down, Athos reached for his goblet and took a long drink, letting the warmth of the wine course down his throat. Sometimes, the burden of knowing about the truth about Aramis and the baby was difficult for him to shoulder. Although he knew that Anne had to some degree taken advantage of Aramis when he was vulnerable and mourning the death of Isabelle, he had no doubt that she loved him-and that he loved her.

And the pain of seeing that love thwarted and forced to lie in embers in the heart, flaming at the most inopportune and hurtful moments, was not insignificant. Athos loved Aramis as if he had been his own brother, and he hated seeing him suffer. Hated seeing him long to hold his son, to be part of his life-and Athos hated the fact that he himself now as godfather had the permanent access and bond to the Dauphin that Aramis never would. _Fate was more often than not cruel_, he thought.

In the midst of these dark thoughts, he felt a cool hand close over his, and he looked to see Charlotte watching him with a troubled expression on her face. _It is as if she can read my thoughts._ He gave her a small smile, and her face cleared a bit. She squeezed his hand, and whispered, "I'm here, Athos. I won't let you fall."

As the evening continued and the ceremonial aspects had been completed, the atmosphere became more relaxed and merry. By the time the minuet was announced, Charlotte had just started to become a bit more comfortable. However, when she took her place on the dance floor with Athos, she felt tension begin to spread through her body. She glanced around her, and saw the wealthy couples surrounding her in a sea of bright blue and gold. The gowns were all extravagant, and the jewels the women wore put her modest sapphire set to shame. _And I thought I looked a princess when I gazed into the cracked mirror on my washstand. How wrong I was._

"Hey," Athos murmured, catching her attention. "Eyes on me, remember? I want you to know that I am looking at the most beautiful, intelligent, and alluring woman in this entire room. Nothing else matters except us. Relax your body." When his right hand took hers and his hand fell naturally to her waist, everything seemed to fall into place, and she smiled at him with gratitude. As they began to dance, she found herself naturally falling into rhythm with the confidence he displayed on the dance floor, her silk dress flowing behind her as they executed a perfect turn.

He gave her a reassuring grin as he guided her in the opposite direction, and she marvelled at the grace this very masculine warrior could display. Her mind turned over threads of their conversation earlier, and she reflexively blushed at the boldness she had displayed in her comments. _Are you sure the pendant is the only thing you find intriguing about my neckline?...,,It may involve hours of intensive one-on-one therapy. _Such flirtatiousness was not part of Charlotte Gaillard's standard repertiore_. I feel safe with him, though…safe enough to be slightly inappropriate and know he will not take unwanted liberties. _

His eyes rested on hers, and his hand tightened possessively on her waist, bringing them closer together. She found herself examining his features again, and wondered at the peace she saw in his face. His dark hair swept down over his forehead, and the clear blue of his eyes seemed to become more arresting by the moment. As he watched her with amusement, the corner of his mouth quirked up in the half-smile that caused her to feel as if her insides were melting. Within five minutes, the dance was over, and Charlotte was glowing with happiness. "Not only did your feet emerge unscathed," she whispered, "it was actually fun!"

"You have a very appealing grace on the dance floor," he answered her with a grin. "I could get used to having you for a dance partner."

"I'll see if I can clear some space on my dance card for later on this evening," Charlotte replied teasingly. "But I must warn you I'm much in demand tonight."

"But how many of your potential escorts have a ceremonial dagger to hand?" inquired Athos with mock gravity. "I might find it necessary to display it if you have too many men circling around you."

"Hmm-very territorial of you, Monsieur Athos…especially for a man I just met several days ago."

"But much has transpired since then, Mademoiselle-so I feel at liberty to claim the privilege." Athos claimed two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and handed one to Charlotte. "Come, I believe the acrobats are about to start."

**Next time-things become a lot more dangerous for everyone in the palace...for some more so than others...**

**Hoping you are enjoying and that I am still staying true to character!**


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter XXVI...in which events at the palace take a dark turn...**

**CHAPTER XXVI**

They passed into the main ballroom, where the group of twenty one acrobats was standing, all staring straight ahead. On cue, two drummers began to drum, and the men began to execute a series of elaborate tumbling routines that captivated the crowd.

Watching from the small platform that had been erected on the left side of the room, the King exclaimed, "It's quite amazing, isn't it Cardinal?"

Richelieu, wishing he was in his rooms with his mistress, sighed and responded automatically, "Yes, very entertaining, Your Majesty."

"And to think," the King said with a trace of petulance, "Treville tried to veto having this act, and the jugglers—all because they had never performed at court in France before! These entertainers hardly look a security threat, do they, Armand?" He giggled and indicated the bearded women, who were patiently sitting to the side, their bouffant calico skirts spread around them.

"Of course not, Your Majesty. Your judgement, as always, was impeccable."

When the acrobats had taken their last bow, acknowledging the thunderous applause, they formed a single file line and trotted off to the side. A ten minute intermission was called, and Athos and Charlotte wandered out of the ballroom and into a corridor. A small dark-haired page passed by them, then paused as he saw the action inside the hall. Slipping inside, he stood against the back wall, his eyes shining as he anticipated catching a glimpse of the show before continuing on his way.

"I wonder how d'Artagnan and Aramis are faring," mused Athos. "I hope their night is quiet and uneventful. I doubt Aramis' nerves could take another incident like the one that triggered our meeting."

"He is a contradiction, isn't he?" said Charlotte thoughtfully. "He is obviously an accomplished flirt, and has a real zest for life. But there is another side to him-a darker, more introspective side. He feels emotion very deeply, doesn't he?"

"Aramis has suffered much in his days," responded Athos in a quiet voice.

"That is what Treville told me about you," said Charlotte, giving him a searching look. "The night he came to ask for my help. Athos-" she hesitated, wanting very badly to ask him who the Anne was that he had called for in his delirium.

"Yes?" his eyes lifted to hers, so bright and honest at that moment that she could not bring herself to broach a topic that was no doubt painful.

"Thank you," she said simply. "For the gift of your friendship. Things have been—difficult of late for me, with my father feeling poorly and Michel-well, you got a good idea the other night of why I find him tiresome. You have brought light into my life at a time where it was badly needed."

"The feeling is mutual," replied Athos, raising the hand he was holding and kissing it, his lips lingering on her skin a fraction longer than she was used to.

A burst of applause then came from the ballroom. "Come," said Charlotte with a smile. "We wouldn't want to miss the main event of the night. How often do you get to see a troupe of bearded female jugglers perform with a dancing bear?"

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The leader of the jugglers bowed formally, then motioned for silence. "Good evening. My name is Madame Elisabeth. I am the founder of our troupe of accomplished artists. As a salute to the ladies, we would like them to be allowed to pass to the front, so they can get an adequate view without being obstructed by the taller gentlemen in the audience."

In response, the women in the audience began to thread their way through the crowd, murmuring their approval at being allowed such a privilege for once.

"Go ahead," Athos urged Charlotte. "I'll be able to find you easily once they finish."

Nodding assent, she moved to the front of the audience, several women urging her forward due to the fact that she was being escorted by the guest of honour.

When all were settled in place, Madame Elisabeth once again stepped forward, adjusting her headscarf with a flourish before speaking in a clear voice infused with more than a hint of drama. "May I request that all the candles except those ringing the stage be extinguished? It will greatly add to the enjoyment of the spectacle." All eyes turned to Louis, who motioned to his servants to fulfil the request.

As the room became darker, Athos circled the back of the crowd and sought out Porthos and Treville. "It's quite difficult to see in here now. Was it known in advance the candles would be extinguished, Captain?"

Treville shook his head in frustration. "I had refused the request of Madame Elisabeth to do so, but obviously she took the matter over my head." He sent a glare in the direction of the stage.

"I don't like it," said Porthos uneasily. "Somethin' doesn't feel right."

"I agree with Porthos," intoned Athos is a low voice. "Perhaps we should do some reconnaissance?" he raised an inquiring eyebrow at Treville.

"Agreed." Treville replied grimly. "You two head to the right. I'll work around the left side of the room, and then move to stand guard by the King and Queen."

The three split up, and Athos found himself distracted by trying to pinpoint Charlotte in the sea of silk. _If there is something less than savoury about to happen, I do not want her caught up in it. _

"Athos!" hissed Porthos. Reluctantly turning his gaze from the centre of the room, he saw the big man motion to him impatiently. "Come on!"

_Focus_, he told himself. _If you do your job, Charlotte will have nothing to worry about._

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Athos was feeling more and more apprehensive as he and Porthos circled behind the crowd. The periphery of the room was now shrouded in darkness, with all eyes focused on the women on stage, who were energetically juggling progressively more challenging and dangerous objects. An enormous black bear was led out into the centre of the action, and was met by loud applause.

As if in response, the bear rose on its hind legs and began to turn in circles, nodding in time to the drummers. Meanwhile, Athos and Porthos were having an increasingly difficult time navigating around the obstacles that seemed to be everywhere—small tables laden with empty glasses, ladies' wraps trailing off chairs, instrument cases left carelessly on the ground by the bands of strolling musicians…

Suddenly, Porthos nearly tripped over a large heap on the ground. "What is that?" he growled. Leaning down, his face became grave, and he motioned to Athos. "Dead body," he hissed.

"Who is it?" Athos' voice sounded controlled and focused, but Porthos' ears detected a hint of strain that was unusual for their de facto leader to display.

"Don't know," Porthos shook his head, cursing as he fumbled in the dark, trying to roll the body over as he spotted a length of cord around the man's neck. "He's been strangled though." When the big man managed to turn the body over, Athos caught a glimpse of a familiar crucifix around the man's neck, and his jaw set grimly. "Father Marcel. The palace chaplain."

"What?" responded Porthos in disbelief. "Why? He's the gentlest soul around."

"Apparently someone felt he was in the way," stated Athos flatly.

'This is not good," muttered Porthos. And no sooner were the words out of his mouth, than the candles ringing the stage were extinguished, and the room went pitch black.

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Anxious murmurs arose from the crowd, but these were quickly drowned out by shrieks of terror that came from the circle of spectators nearest the stage. Several torches suddenly flared on the stage, revealing a chilling scene. The "bearded women" had shed their skirts and headscarves to reveal themselves as men clad in breeches, sporting belts bristling with weapons. Each now had a woman from the audience held in front of him as a human shield, with a knife to her throat. As Athos scanned the faces of the women, he saw in dread what he had been hoping not to see, and his heart stopped—Charlotte, her face white with fright, held tightly against the chest of the hulking man who had previously been "Madame Elisabeth."

"Ladies and gentlemen," he called out, his voice disturbingly courteous. "We regret to bring a halt to the festivities, but the time has come for the audience participation part of the evening. Luckily, we have a dozen gracious ladies who have volunteered to be part of this segment. In case you are deliberating about mounting a rescue mission—our loyal friends the acrobats have been kind enough to form a cordon around the outer ring of the room. And, yes, musketeers—they are all armed," he called out.

"I see the King and Queen, along with the Cardinal, have somehow already beat a hasty retreat, but I have a feeling that the Dauphin will be making an unannounced appearance in the next few minutes. " He smirked.

Outside the ballroom, Gabriel froze. He had become restless waiting for the action to start, and had decided to hurry downstairs and complete his errand. But upon hearing these words, he instinctively knew that the man meant to hurt the baby he had sworn to serve and protect. Staying in the shadows, he crept down the hall to a back staircase he knew was a shortcut to the Dauphin's suite, and shot up the stairs as fast as he could.

In the ballroom, all eyes were riveted on the stage. "Now, each of our lovely ladies will call on her husband or escort to provide her ransom—no ransom, she dies. Simple as that. In case anyone wants to be a hero—don't try it—please. One signal from me and all these women die. It's nothing to us. The Dauphin is the big prize. This is merely entertainment while we wait. We will start on the far end of the stage." Athos suddenly became aware he was holding his breath, and slowly exhaled, keeping his eyes intent on Charlotte. She was standing very still, her eyes roving over the audience in what he was sure was an attempt to find him.

The first man stepped up with his hostage, an elderly lady in a blue silk dress ornamented with golden flowers. He whispered in her ear and grinned, digging the knife into her neck. Her voice, high and thready, floated out over the audience. "Pierre?" she called, shaking like a leaf.

"Pierre, you've got three minutes…hope you can still walk at a decent pace," called the leader. An eerie silence followed, and the woman called out several more times for her husband, increasingly desperate. The clock continued to tick, and the leader finally nodded to her captor, who slit her throat in one swift move, dropping her body to the ground.

The next woman's husband was at the stage in less than 30 seconds, frantically handing over anything even remotely of value on his person. The leader nodded, and his accomplice pulled the woman back away from the edge of the stage. "But you promised! I want her back!" screamed the man.

"All in good time, my man," sneered the leader. "The whole point of having hostages is to keep everyone in the room on their best behaviour. Your wife can still die if anyone—" he raised his voice-"does anything stupid."

Charlotte kept as still as possible, not wanting to give the man holding her the satisfaction of screaming or struggling, although her instinct was to do both. His arm was tight around her neck, and she felt a bit lightheaded when he turned to the side to speak to one of his comrades and tightened his grip.

_So this is how I may die_, she thought. She felt strangely objective about the concept. _Perhaps it's just my brain refusing to accept it. If only I could see Athos one more time. At least if I am to die, I got to experience the thrill of being cherished—if only for a short time—by a man who was truly worth loving. _Once that thought filtered into her mind, the tears suddenly flooded her eyes.

_What if our relationship had been allowed to grow and flourish? What would our first fight have been about?_ She imagined they would argue in a spirited fashion, but she also imagined the making up as—well, just as intense and passionate, if their short interlude in the shop had been any indication. _Would we had had children?_ She pictured a little boy in her mind, a son—dark hair sweeping over his forehead, with blue eyes smiling at her as he raced into her arms….

When the woman next to Charlotte was wrested to the edge of the stage, she was sobbing and nearly incoherent. The man holding her cursed, trying to get her to calm down. In frustration, he finally yanked the diamond necklace off her neck and cut her throat. She made a loud gurgling noise, her eyes staring wide, as blood sprayed from her neck, coating the side of Charlotte's face. The warm coppery smell, combined with the gruesome picture in front of her, made Charlotte feel intensely nauseated almost instantly. She could not look any more, and turned her head away. The sight of blood during the course of her work with patients never troubled her, but the fear of seeing the woman next to her dead in a heap on the stage was too much.

She looked down, her eyes focusing on her shoes-_the only gift he ever got to give me_—and saw a ribbon of bright red blood lazily curl under her feet. She gagged on the bile rising in her throat, almost aspirating. Her captor loosened his hold on her, throwing her to the stage in disgust. Grabbing a fistful of her hair, which had fallen loose from the tidy chignon, he hauled her up on her knees, pressing the blade of his knife against her jaw.

"So," he asked casually, as if they were having a conversation over a cup of tea, "how much do you think you're worth to the hero of the hour?" He looked down at her hand. "Hmmm…not married—or engaged. Are you just a whore hired for the evening, or does he actually pretend to care for you?"

Her eyes swimming in tears, she held her tongue as he continued to smirk at her. Raising his voice, he called out sharply, "She's not sure, Athos the musketeer hero—not sure how much she really means to you. So let's find out, shall we? You've got sixty seconds to make it to me and hand over the dagger the king gave you, or she dies. Your choice."

Athos, his eyes riveted on Charlotte, felt as if he could not breathe. He began shoving his way through the crowd, Porthos close in his wake. Frustrated by his slow progress, he called out "I'm coming! Do not harm her!"

"Maybe you'll move a little faster if I bleed her, hmmm?" The man delicately sliced a 2 inch gash under her chin, and Charlotte screamed in agony, blood streaming down her neck. Athos and Porthos raced on, and reached the edge of the stage in seconds.

"ENOUGH!" Athos' eyes were burning as he threw the dagger down in front of Charlotte. "Let her go. She is an innocent woman."

"Perhaps in a bit…" replied Charlotte's captor casually. "She is a pretty little thing, though…I'm of a mind to keep her." He kissed her lingeringly on the neck, causing Athos to nearly rush the stage, stopped only by Porthos wrapping his arms around him, the big man whispering urgently into his ear.

"Stop, Athos…you are of no help to her if you lose your head. He's just tryin' to goad you." Athos halted in his struggle, his mind gradually realizing that Porthos was right. He sought desperately to catch Charlotte's attention, but her eyes were tightly closed, and her lips moved silently. _She is praying_, he thought in despair_. Please do not let this be my last chance to see her alive._

**Next time...danger spreads to the royal nursery, involving Aramis and d'Artagnan, while Charlotte disappears, leaving Athos frantic with worry...**


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter XXVII...in which Aramis and d'Artagnan work to protect the Dauphin and Constance...meanwhile, Athos' fears for Charlotte increase as time goes by...**

**CHAPTER XXVII**

The night was dragging on, and Aramis was still edgy. D'Artagnan tried to ignore him, but found his thoughts returning to Constance, which only served to make him uneasy as well. He had not realized how difficult it would be to see her tonight. She had looked as lovely as ever, but clearly had been upset about something. He knew her well enough to see tell-tale traces of tears on her face. Although she had claimed to be happy, he had sensed she was anything but content.

While he was occupied with these thoughts, a small form came hurtling around the corner and barrelled into them. D'Artagnan recognized the page he had seen coming out of the Dauphin's suite earlier. The boy was pale with fright, and gasping for breath. "They're coming for him! We have to hide him! Now!" His eyes were frantic, and Aramis gripped his arms, trying to steady him enough to get some sense out of what he was saying.

"Who is coming?" he asked urgently.

"The men—the bearded ladies-I mean, they were men in disguise, and they—they have weapons, and women are being held hostage—" Aramis cut him off, his eyes as wild as the boy's.

"What did you say about the Dauphin?"

"They are coming for him. They said so."

Aramis looked at d'Artagnan. "I'll get Constance and the baby. It'll just take a moment."

Pushing through the door in an instant, he dashed through the queen's sitting room into the nursery. Constance leapt up, "What are you doing? I told-"

"There are intruders, and they mean to take the baby. We need to go. **Now**." He scooped up his son, who was still swaddled peacefully in his blanket, and held him tightly to his chest.

"But where can-"

D'Artagnan burst in with Gabriel, his voice intense with worry. "They're coming down the hall! We're trapped!"

"The staircase in the sitting room!" Gabriel blurted out. "It leads to the chapel, but only the Queen has the key." Aramis dug in his pocket and pulled out a key. "I was given one just for tonight in case of such an eventuality. Show me where the door is."

"Go!" urged d'Artagnan, pushing Aramis forward. "I'll stay here and distract them."

As Constance resolutely stayed by his side, he shot her a look of frustration. "Are you mad? Go with Aramis!"

"The Dauphin is my responsibility," she said stubbornly. "I have made a promise to the Queen."

"Well, you are of no good to him if you're **dead**!" he hissed, as Aramis ushered Gabriel through the door and motioned for Constance to join them. She shook her head emphatically, "No! Lock the door. Now! You have only a moment. I'll pull the curtain to hide the entrance."

Aramis paused only an instant, then clicked the door shut with a regretful look at d'Artagnan. Constance raced to the wall, and neatly pulled a floor-length velvet drapery over the door, effectively camouflaging the entrance.

Turning on her angrily, d'Artagnan grasped Constance by the wrist. "Is there nowhere else for you to hide? Why are you being so foolish?"

"Because if it is my time to die, I will do so with you by my side," she replied firmly, tears glistening in her eyes. "I may not have been able to choose to be with you in life, but I will not be denied this." Glancing at a mahogany panel by the fireplace, an idea sprang into her head. "There is a small crawl space behind that panel that is triggered by a spring mechanism—the Queen showed it to me months ago in case of emergency. I'd almost forgotten." She moved swiftly to the panel, and ran her fingers over the grain frantically.

Pounding footsteps were heard in the hall, and the door to the suite was rattled vigorously. A pistol shot came next, someone doubtless trying to break the lock. D'Artagnan was by her side in an instant, and they hit upon the mechanism at the same time, the panel sliding open. The space was narrow, but was wide enough for them to squeeze into and slide the panel closed quickly. Disoriented by the sudden plunge into total darkness, Constance and d'Artagnan froze as they heard heavy boots rushing through the sitting room, breaking up into groups to systematically search the rooms.

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Gabriel and Aramis moved swiftly down the stairs, navigating by the moonlight streaming through several slits that had been cut in olden days for the palace archers. They came to a stop when they were halfway down, as the baby started to whimper. "He might be getting hungry," whispered the page. "He was fed last about three hours ago, and he usually feeds again just before his bedtime, which is right about now."

Aramis closed his eyes in frustration. While he had never cared for a baby on a day to day basis, he certainly knew enough to realize that loud crying would likely follow soon, and that could easily prove fatal for all three of them.

Gabriel fished a small pouch out of his pocket. "I always keep a bit of something on hand for times like this. Watch, he likes this." He pulled out a sliver of dried apple, and Louis reached for it immediately, his chubby hand waving in the air. The page broke off a tiny piece, and showed it to the baby, who smiled and cooed, then accepted it eagerly.

The musketeer eyed him with approval. "You seem to have quite a way with children."

The happy expression on the boy's face clouded over, and the sprinkle of freckles on his pale face stood out in relief. "When I lived at home, I loved to help my mother with the new babies. Not all of them lived…" his voice choked up, "but the four that did, I would spend hours playing with them sometimes. I'm the oldest," he added as an afterthought.

"How did you come to the Dauphin's household?" asked Aramis softly.

The boy broke off another tiny bit of apple and placed it in the baby's hand, smiling as he watched him stuff it in his mouth. "My father died," he replied simply. "He was a distant cousin of the King, and he had intended to petition for me to have a place in his household at some point. However, nothing had been formally arranged at the time of his death. My mother was frantic that the chance might have slipped away, but when she wrote the King and inquired about a place with Dauphin, he agreed. So I came," he shrugged and gave Aramis a shy smile. "I miss my family a lot, but if I had to come to the palace, I'm glad I got to be with the heir. I don't think I would have been as comfortable working with the King…or with adults."

"You are wise," observed Aramis with a rueful look. "The worries of the adult world will come for you soon enough. Besides, I am sure that the Dauphin will benefit from having such a good friend by his side."

Suddenly, raised voices were heard from above. Gabriel instinctively shrank against the wall, and the baby, sensing his discomfort, began to fuss again. Aramis rocked him gently, and looked at the page. "We'll be okay. They won't find us."

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Constance was wedged against d'Artagnan, and felt her heart beating furiously. She was shaking in fear, and his arms closed around her comfortingly, wrapping around her waist.

His head dropped to her neck, and he kissed her softly. The reassuring feel of his skin against hers sparked a memory of the times they had spent lying in each other's arms, their limbs entwined. He whispered in her ear, "Breathe with me. I won't let anything happen to you." She felt his chest expand against her back, press against her for a count of three, then release. The soothing pattern then repeated. She began to follow his rhythm, and relaxed against him as he leaned with his back against the wall

"Where is he?" they heard a voice shout in frustration feet away from them, and something shattered against the ground. Loud crashes followed, and Constance guessed that furniture was being overturned in the frantic search. The sound of closets being thrown open followed, then a roar of intense rage. "He's not here! Damn them!"

"They couldn't have taken him far," replied another voice, more low and reasonable.

"We don't have all night to search," came the irritable retort. "No doubt someone has managed somehow to signal for reinforcements from the garrison. I knew this was an idiotic plan. Let's get back to the ballroom before this whole thing blows up in our faces and we end up taking the fall."

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Back in the ballroom, tension was thick in the air as the last woman was calling frantically for her husband. He pushed to the stage, handing over a fistful of money and jewellery that he appeared to have gathered from friends. The leader nodded in acceptance, then motioned for the bear to be led out on stage again. One of the acrobats suddenly darted onto the stage and whispered in his ear.

Cursing in anger, the man tightened his hold on Charlotte, who gasped desperately for breath. "Well, it appears our musketeer friends—or some unknown party—has not only accomplished the escape of the King and Queen, but also of the Dauphin. I suppose I should introduce myself, so you know who you can thank for the evening's fun—the name's Raoul." His eyes, glittering with hatred, fixed on Porthos and Athos. "A pity your darling girl here will have to pay the price for your efficiency. But don't worry, Monsieur Athos, we'll be sure to squeeze every last little drop of sweetness out of her luscious body first." He licked the top of Charlotte's left breast lasciviously, watching Athos closely for a reaction.

The musketeer went nearly wild with rage as Raoul began to drag Charlotte off the stage, simultaneously signalling for the bear to be released into the crowd. As the bear lumbered off the stage, saliva dripping from her mouth, the crowd turned as one and began to rush towards the exits. Only the lone figures of Porthos and Athos fought against the momentum, desperately trying to reach Charlotte and her captor before they disappeared into the night. Frustrated with their lack of progress, Athos finally motioned to Porthos for them to backtrack and skirt the edge of the room, aiming for the small exit behind the stage.

As they finally emerged into the cold winter night, Athos spied Charlotte struggling with her captor as the man attempted to toss her bodily onto the horse that was waiting. His comrades were fleeing around him, spurring their horses out of the gate. Filled with rage, he backhanded her across the face, causing her to fall to the ground, stunned. Throwing her horizontally in front of his saddle, he leaped up and urged the stallion forward, thundering out of the palace gates, which had been effectively opened by dispatching the two musketeers on duty by gunshots to the head.

Athos and Porthos frantically searched for mounts, finally catching sight of two horses in the characteristic saddles and bridles of the musketeers tied by the guard post. Suspecting they were the horses belonging to their dead comrades who had been on watch at the gate, the men swung up into the saddle, urging their horses onwards after the fleeing Raoul.

The streets of Paris were coated in a thin sheet of ice, the horses fighting to maintain a footing on the cobblestones. Charlotte's captor appeared very familiar with the streets and alleys around the palace, and led them on a headlong dash down streets so narrow that the horses' bodies, as well as that of Charlotte, seemed to scrape against the buildings. At one corner, a cart pulled out in front of Athos, causing him and Porthos to pull up short, cursing their bad luck. Athos roared in fury and slammed his hand against the wall next to him, watching in frustration as Raoul galloped on ahead.

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Reaching a familiar intersection, Raoul paused, debating whether to continue on with the added burden of Charlotte. Looking at her semi-conscious body, he realized her death would likely be achieved quickly with dumping her on the cold street. Besides, her lack of alertness would mean no real pleasure could be gained from any abuse of her body, as the terror he enjoyed provoking in his victims would be absent. Pushing her off the horse, he continued on at a canter, as Charlotte lay on her side in a small patch of snow, her once-beautiful dress now torn and dirty.

**Next time...Constance reconsiders her future with d'Artagnan, while Athos and Porthos continue the desperate search for Charlotte...**


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter XXVIII...in which Athos and Porthos comb the streets of Paris in search of Charlotte, while Anne and Aramis are reunited in the nursery...**

**CHAPTER XXVIII**

As the cart slowly lumbered out of the way, Athos wasted no time in spurring his mount past the obstruction. A minute later, he found himself in the middle of a square, a small stone church with a weather-beaten bell facing him. His eyes searched the shadows to no avail. There was no trace of Charlotte anywhere. He began to truly panic, envisioning her innocent body being cast in the role as a plaything for group of hardened criminals who had been bold enough to infiltrate the palace. He was thankful that Treville had had the foresight to spirit away the Queen and the King as soon as the ballroom went dark.

Porthos pulled up by his side, his hat pulled low over his face. He glanced at Athos, his face betraying his concern for his friend. "We'll find her," he said reassuringly. "Perhaps it would be best if we split up, eh?"

Athos nodded, the tension of the situation invading every muscle in his body. "She won't last long out here in the cold, if they've dumped her. And if they haven't…" his voice trailed off, imagining worse horrors for her.

"Don't go there, Athos," Porthos growled. "We're not lettin' anything happen to her. Not on our watch. You take the east side of the square, and I'll take the west. Let's meet up at the bridge by the river."

Athos nodded. "Porthos-" he swallowed, emotion getting to him, "Thank you."

Porthos brushed off his comment. "It's nothin', Athos. You'd do the same for me in a heartbeat. We're brothers, eh?" he wheeled his horses around and galloped off to the west, while Athos set off in the opposite direction, fear gripping his heart.

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The Dauphin's suite had been silent for some time, but d'Artagnan waited an extra 15 minutes before even considering sliding the panel open a fraction. Once he did, he motioned for Constance to stay behind as he crept out into the sitting room, stealthily canvassing the entire room before moving on to the nursery. Once he was satisfied the rooms were free of intruders, he returned to the entrance to the suite, and fashioned a makeshift reinforcement for the door by tying a rope around the handle and wedging a chair underneath. He then returned to the panel and led Constance out, not letting go of her hand for an instant.

Throwing her arms around him, she began to sob. "I thought we were going to die-and the thought of never holding you again drove me nearly mad."

"Shhh, shhh," d'Artagnan held her close. "Everything's fine. We're both alive."

"Everything is not fine!" Constance declared fiercely, pushing away from him for an instant, tears streaming down her face. "I cannot live without you! I won't do it…not ever again. What is life, after all, if we can't be with those we love? It's hell on earth…and I refuse to live in the flames anymore."

His hand cupping her face, d'Artagnan tried to steady his voice, then failed as it choked with emotion. "Constance, I love you…and I swear you won't regret this—not ever. But first-" he swallowed, "we must make sure the Dauphin, Aramis, and Gabriel are safe."

Nodding silently, Constance disengaged herself from d'Artagnan's arms to pull aside the curtain, exposing the door. D'Artagnan thumped on it twice. "Aramis!" he shouted hoarsely. "It's d'Artagnan! All is clear! Open up!"

A moment later, a key scraped in the lock, and Aramis cautiously opened the door, pistol in hand. He sighed audibly in relief when he saw d'Artagnan and Constance, and pushed the door to the side, motioning for Gabriel to come through first with the baby.

The page was holding the infant securely, whispering to him softly as he patted his back. Little Louis rubbed his eyes drowsily, then relaxed in the boy's hold, yawning and falling asleep almost instantly.

Aramis clapped a hand on the boy's shoulder. "This one-is a true hero." His voice was sincere and admiring, and Gabriel glowed to have the approval of one of the King's finest soldiers. "He was prepared for every contingency—and he has an amazing repertoire of lullabies." He leaned next to the boy's ear. "You'll have to teach me a few…I hope to have cause to use them someday." The boy nodded, smiling shyly.

At that moment, fierce pounding was heard on the door to the suites. "D'Artagnan! Aramis! Are you in there?"

"It's Treville!" exclaimed d'Artagnan with relief, and raced to admit him. Treville entered, his eyes scanning the occupants of the room. He was closely followed by the King, the Queen, and the Cardinal. Anne began to cry when she saw her child. Gabriel, seeing her relief, instantly went to the Queen and gently handed her the baby. He then bowed, "Your Majesties, Your Eminence," and returned to Aramis' side, a bit overwhelmed by all the important people in the room.

"What has transpired here?" asked the King urgently. "The Dauphin has not been hurt, has he?"

"No, Sire, he is perfectly well," replied Anne, smiling through her tears.

"Your Majesty, the intruders managed to gain access to this wing, but due to the quick thinking of your new page, who alerted us just before they reached the room, we were able to effectively hide and escape detection," replied Aramis carefully. "I wish it to be noted that this boy," he put his hand on Gabriel's shoulder, "was the real hero of the evening."

Louis looked at Gabriel kindly. "You are a credit to your father, Gabriel Delacroix. I am exceedingly glad to have your steady presence by my son's side. You have my thanks, and the thanks of the Queen." He looked at Anne, who impulsively hugged the boy, whispering, "You now have a special place in my heart. Anything you need, just ask me. I am forever grateful."

She stepped back and kissed her baby's head again, overwhelmed by the joy of having him in her arms again. Gabriel stared at her, almost hypnotized by the warmth and kindness of the Queen, who also possessed a truly luminous beauty. Aramis cleared his throat, and asked, "Might I petition the King for something?"

Louis gave him a sly look. "Aramis, if you're angling for a ceremonial dagger for yourself, I have none to spare."

Aramis gave a rueful laugh. "No, Your Majesty, Athos earned that. I have a much simpler request. I know it is a tradition for the pages in the royal households to have a mentor. I am assuming Gabriel has already had one named within the palace, but I feel this young boy has much promise, and has already demonstrated his exceptional bravery. Might it be acceptable for me to be named as an additional mentor? I would be glad to school him in the art of self-defence, which could only aid in protecting your son."

The King gave him a thoughtful look. "Yes, well, that might do. Athos would really be the more appropriate choice, but I suppose he will have more ceremonial requirements imposed upon him due to his new title, and we don't want to overburden the poor man. Your request is granted. Make note of that, Cardinal. And now, I must attend to another engagement. You have everything in hand, I expect?" He was halfway out the door before Anne could even respond to his question, and quickly disappeared, the Cardinal trailing in his wake.

Treville noted the anguish on Anne's face. _He didn't even ask to hold the baby_, he thought, shaking his head in disgust. "Aramis, can you make sure the Queen and Constance are settled in safely? D'Artagnan, I have need of you immediately. Charlotte has been taken, and Porthos and Athos have gone to look for her."

"No!" Constance gave a cry of dismay, and Aramis and d'Artagnan exchanged a look of concern. "Go ahead," urged Aramis. "I will follow as soon as I can." Treville and d'Artagnan left immediately, d'Artagnan turning to give Constance a last lingering look. "I will be back," he said in a low undertone. "I promise."

As the room began to empty, Anne turned to Constance. "Constance, can you please escort Gabriel back to his quarters? I then give you leave to retire for the night."

"But Your Majesty," protested Constance. "Who will help you undress?"

"I will be fine," replied Anne hastily. "Contrary to popular belief, I can get in and out of a dress by myself when circumstances call for it. Let it be known I will have the Dauphin sleep with me tonight instead of in the nursery. I am not letting him out of my sight." She gazed down at her child lovingly. "And under no circumstances am I to be disturbed," she said in a firm voice. "All my ladies are to be dismissed for the rest of the evening."

Constance noticed the Queen looking at Aramis as she said this last sentence, and a sinking feeling descended into the pit of her stomach. _Surely the Queen does not plan to have Aramis stay with her tonight as well?_ But as she guided Gabriel out of the room, she saw Aramis go to Anne and place a comforting hand on her shoulder, and she knew that was exactly what was about to happen.

**Next time…things heat up between Aramis and Anne…meanwhile, cold takes its toll on Charlotte as Athos and Porthos continue to search for her...**


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter XXIX...in which Annamis create some new memories (yes, all you Aramis fans who hung with me throughout the detours of developing other plotlines will be rewarded!)...and the hunt for Charlotte continues...**

**CHAPTER XXIX**

Fifteen minutes later, Anne, Aramis, and their son were safely locked away in her bedroom, the baby sleeping peacefully in a small bassinet by the bed. A single candle flickered on the nightstand, casting a warm glow across the large four-poster bed. The bedding had been already turned back, and Anne's nightdress lay over the pale blue sheets, which were made of the finest silk.

"The message Constance gave me-what does it mean?" Aramis asked in a quiet voice. "Who knows? And what exactly do they know?"

"I don't know for sure," Anne said slowly, her face revealing the stress of the day's events. "I've received some vague messages, and perhaps can make an educated guess. I promise to tell you all about it. But **please**," she pleaded, "Let's not talk about it right at this moment—I can't bear it after what just happened. We have all night, and this is the first chance for all three of us to be together—in one room, like a real family." Her eyes filled with tears.

Aramis, his hand gripping one of the mahogany posters of the bed, gave the Queen a searching look. "Are you sure this is what you want? What about the King?"

Anne laughed bitterly. "Do you really think I would be his first choice for entertainment on New Year's Eve? I doubt I'd even make the top ten list. No, I expect he has gone off for an assignation—with one or more of his mistresses."

"Then he is a fool," replied Aramis, his eyes intent on her. "For you are the most beautiful, desirable, generous woman in France—and you are within my grasp. I intend to take advantage of that fact—likely more than once tonight-if that is your desire."

"You need to ask?" whispered Anne, going to him. "It is all I have thought about since the night we were together at the convent. I have almost worn those memories out by reliving them time and time again."

"Well then," said Aramis, his voice low and husky with his need for her. "We shall have to create some new ones to replace them."

His arms went around her, and he lowered his mouth to hers. His kiss was slow and thorough, and Anne, frantic with desire, found herself starting to tear at his clothes.

He stayed her hand in his, "No, Ana. The first time we were together, I was not entirely myself, and my emotions caused me to act without any thought. This time, I will be in control, and I mean to savour every second. You may be the Queen of France, but I will rule in this bedroom tonight." Holding her eyes, he slowly took off his weapons belt and his outer jacket, throwing them on the floor.

As Anne stared at him, wondering how he could make the idea of being dominated so thoroughly sound so incredibly sensual, he seemed to read her thoughts, and gave her a seductive grin. "I assure you, the results will be quite to your liking." As he advanced closer, his shirt came off in one fluid motion, and she saw the cross she had gifted him with was still hanging securely around his neck, the only ornamentation visible on his gloriously muscular chest.

"I am yours," she whispered. "Do what you like."

Circling around her, he kissed the nape of her neck, then began to undo the laces of her gown very slowly.

"Your skin is so soft," he traced his fingers over her spine as he revealed more of her back. "And I plan to become reacquainted with every inch of it tonight, as I am sure I may have missed a few spots last time."

Gasping as he trailed his lips down her spine, Anne braced herself against the bed. "I swear you are about to be my undoing." The gown finally falling to the floor, he rose and nuzzled her neck, only the fine gossamer-thin layer of her white silk chemise separating them from the waist up. She could feel the heat of his body against hers as his hands roamed over her, and finally could stand it no more. "Please, Aramis, I'm begging you…don't torture me so."

"Is it really torture?" he whispered with a sensual laugh. "You seem to be enjoying it quite a bit."

Anne turned around suddenly, shifting in his arms. "Well," she said with a smile full of promise, "Two can play at that game." It was his turn now to gasp at her touch, and within seconds, they had both surrendered any plan of remaining in control.

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Charlotte became vaguely aware that she was shivering, and felt colder than she ever had in her life. Struggling to her feet, she stumbled, and looked around, trying to calm her disoriented mind enough to get a fix on where she was. Nothing looked at all familiar, and she felt her heart rate and breathing speed up. The alley she was in was strewn with trash, and the buildings were in disrepair. The structure to the left appeared to be a tavern. Raucous music was coming out of it at a high volume, and the high-pitched squealing of drunken women could be heard intermittently among the coarse jokes that floated out into the night.

Deciding to walk to the end of the alley to see if she could recognize the main street, Charlotte kept stumbling. At first, she thought it was due to her new shoes, but as she looked down, she was surprised to note that she had somehow lost her them along the way. Her once pristine stockings were now torn, with most of her feet exposed to the ice and snow. After some moments of walking, her feet did not feel chilled anymore, and she supposed that perhaps in retrospect it had never actually been as bitterly cold as she had imagined. The alley seemed to get longer and longer the farther she walked, and her pace seemed to become slower and slower. Frustrated by her lack of progress, she leaned against the weathered wooden wall of the tavern.

_All this walking must be making me hot_, she thought, confused by the fact that she was beginning to feel as if she was burning up. She reached to her back for her laces, despite objectively knowing that there was no way she could undo the dress by herself. Groping again and again for the elusive laces, she finally screamed out in frustration, pounding the wall with her fist.

Her scream drew the attention of two men who were passing by. One elbowed the other and pointed at Charlotte, and they advanced down the alley towards her. The two men were dishevelled and uncouth, and smelled heavily of alcohol. However, Charlotte's brain processed their images into those of Athos and Porthos, and she almost fell in her eagerness to get to them.

"Thank God you found me!" she cried out, tripping again and falling to her knees. "I am burning up in this dress, and I just cannot seem to get it off."

"Is that so?" inquired one of the men, giving her a leering look. "Well, it must be your lucky evening, because Pierre and I, well, we excel in helping women undress."

"Athos, why are you calling yourself Pierre?" Charlotte felt incredibly irritated. "Stop playing games! I need you and Porthos to help me out of this, please!"

Throwing her face first against the wall, the second man began to laugh uproariously. "Oh, we'll help you all right. And we'll be sure to collect a generous reward from you at the same time." Charlotte whimpered, her skin tearing against the splintered wood as the men rapidly unlaced her bodice. "Not so rough!"

"I don't think you're the one giving orders at this point," snapped the first man with a nasty laugh.

"That is correct," came Athos' cold voice from behind him. "We have taken that duty upon ourselves." Two pistols clicked simultaneously against the heads of the men, and he calmly continued. "I advise you to step away immediately, or you may find yourselves inconveniently dead on the first day of the New Year." Porthos wasted no time in assisting the man in front of him to move, shoving him to the side and kicking him in the back, sending his body sprawling to the ground. The other man beat a hasty retreat behind him, and they both disappeared into the night.

Athos had caught Charlotte in his arms as she had slid down the wall, and turned her over, trying to rouse her from her semi-conscious state. Her eyes fluttered open for an instant, and she looked at him with a puzzled expression. "Who are you? Where is Athos?" Her voice became higher and more desperate. "Is he injured? What have you done with him?" She struggled against him for a moment, then her body relaxed as she slipped back into unconsciousness.

"Hypothermia." Porthos' voice was tight with concern. His friend seemed to be in a trance, trying over and over to wake her. "Athos, we have to get her warm. Now."

Athos stared at him. "She's going to die, isn't she? And it's all because of me!" He hit the ground, roaring in frustration. "Why does it seem like every time I achieve even a small measure of happiness, it all disintegrates-either it was an illusion and never there, like with my **beloved wife**," he spat out the words, "or else someone I care for has to die? Porthos, if this is what the rest of my life is going to be like, I can't-" his voice broke, and he choked back a sob.

"**No one** is going to die," Porthos responded fiercely, "Definitely not Charlotte. But I need you to stay with me, Athos…I can't do this alone. She is counting on you."

**Next time...Athos and Porthos rush Charlotte back to the garrison, hoping to save her from frostbite...**


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter XXX...in which Athos begins to realize how much Charlotte means to him...**

**CHAPTER XXX**

Fifteen minutes later, Porthos and Athos galloped into the courtyard at the garrison, slowing only for Porthos to leap off his horse and carefully collect Charlotte from Athos' horse. As one of the stable lads, surprisingly alert at this hour, led their horses away, Athos took the stairs to his room two at a time. He unlatched the door in an instant and tossed his gloves to the side, scrambling to start a fire.

Porthos entered the room carrying Charlotte, who was wrapped in Athos' cloak, and kicked the door closed. "Where do you want me to put her?"

"Not the bed," he answered absently, concentrating on getting the fire to flame into life. "We need to get her dry first. Lay her here, by me." Finally succeeding in starting the kindling, he turned his attention to Charlotte. Her face was a mess of dried blood and dirt, and her usually lustrous chestnut hair was limp and matted to her neck. Athos shook his head, barely controlling the despair and rage he felt.

"Warm water." Porthos blurted out suddenly, desperate to be helpful. "I'll head down to the kitchen and get a large pot. I saw a light on—I bet Serge is up playing cards with some of the grooms." Athos gave him a grateful look. "Porthos—can you bring me one of your shirts?"

Porthos gave him a puzzled look. "Why?"

"You're bigger than me," responded Athos practically. "We've got to put her in something, and I don't happen to have any dresses on hand."

"You don't have-" began Porthos.

"A key to Aramis' room?" interjected Athos dryly, anticipating what his friend was thinking, as they were all aware Aramis typically kept a change of clothes in his quarters for the current lady in his life. "No, he confiscated it after I hid his pistol and made him late for muster." Athos, when he was in the proper mood, had a reputation as quite the practical joker.

"Too bad," sighed Porthos as he shut the door behind him. "I'll be back in a minute."

Athos bent over Charlotte, and softly kissed her forehead. "You're safe now," he promised her. "You're going to be good as new soon. In fact, I'm not letting you out of my sight until you're able to properly flirt with me again." Her feet were cold and blue, and he rubbed them briskly, trying to restore some semblance of warmth.

Porthos returned as quickly as promised, bringing one of his best linen shirts, a spare blanket, and a large copper pot of water. He pulled from his pocket a bar of soap wrapped in a washcloth, followed by a small medical kit. He chuckled and winked at Athos. "Not a bad haul for New Year's Eve, eh? I figured you probably already had brandy or wine to cleanse her wound. It's going to need stitches, isn't it?"

Athos rubbed his face, his eyes pained. "I would give anything for Aramis to be here. I'm not sure I can handle sewing up a wound that she never would have suffered if it hadn't been for me."

"I'll do it," replied Porthos nonchalantly. "Aramis actually gave me a refresher just last week. My stitches may not be fine enough for the Queen's chemise, but I bet it'd pass for a princess." He grinned, trying to lighten the mood. "You can help by holding her head and just talking to her….I imagine any conversation with you will likely keep her asleep for quite some time."

Athos gave him a deprecating look, then fetched a bottle of brandy from next to the bed. "The best I have." He stared at the label for an instant, his mind traveling back to thoughts from earlier that day. "I'd planned on us all having a drink together to ring in the New Year when we returned from duty at the ball." He tossed it to Porthos. "The best laid plans, so they say?"

"At least it'll get put to good use," said Porthos, furrowing his brow in concentration as he began to cleanse the wound. "I've been meanin' to tell you somethin'—I really like Charlotte. She's good for you Athos," he observed casually, then fixed his eyes on his friend. "I'm talkin' really good—like the anti-Milady. I haven't seen you this relaxed and happy—not countin' the last several hours, that is—" he added hastily, "—probably ever. It makes me very glad to see you open your heart to a woman again."

Athos placed his hand on his friend's shoulder. "You're a good man, Porthos. Not many men I know would voluntarily spend New Year's Eve sewing up a gash on his friend's date."

"I doubt many people have been in a situation where sewin' was needed for a lady on New Year's Eve," replied Porthos dryly, arching a dark eyebrow at Athos. "All right, here goes…. I think she's still completely out, but makes sure you keep talkin' to her."

Ten minutes later, Porthos sat back and proudly looked at his handiwork. "So, what do ya think? Pretty good, eh?" He began to chuckle. "Not too bad for a medic from the Court of Miracles."

"I don't think Aramis could have done better," responded Athos truthfully. He was a bit troubled by the fact that Charlotte had remained insensible to the undoubtedly significant pain of having the gash under her chin closed. "Our next task-how can we change her and keep her modesty intact? The last thing I want is for her to start to wake up and think that someone is-violating her. After all, it almost happened..." his voice caught again.

"Drape a blanket over her," suggested Porthos. "Once she's covered, we just have to shimmy the gown and chemise over her head, then get the shirt on. Should be simple—the bodice is already essentially undone."

What was theoretically an easy task proved much more difficult in reality, especially with the state of the wet material, which clung stubbornly to Charlotte's skin. Finally, Athos threw his hands up in frustration. 'This isn't working," he told Porthos, his voice tight. "We'll have to cut the clothes off her, and hope she doesn't wake while we're working with our daggers."

They sliced the great majority of the heavy skirt off first, folding the blanket back to mid-thigh, both men seeking to avoid looking at Charlotte's exposed legs. Covering her back up, they cut the sleeves off next, then worked through the material on the shoulders. They finally sliced the dress straight down the side of her ribcage and hip, rolling her carefully to fish out the material from under her back.

"I think you better retrieve the front," said Porthos uncomfortably. "I feel like a voyeur."

Athos gently reached under the blanket and pulled the material off her waist, shivering as he felt how cold her belly was. He scrupulously avoided her breasts, afraid of triggering panic in her if her brain began to process that someone was touching her in an intimate place. When he finally had extracted the last bit of dress and chemise, he sighed, suddenly feeling drained.

"Okay, next part. Let's get the shirt on her."

Porthos lifted up her neck a bit, and they slid the roomy white shirt over her head, then each tracked an arm up a sleeve. When they pulled the material down, it reached to just above her knees, and they gave each other a relieved look. Athos then retrieved some thick woollen socks that he had had warming by the fire, and slipped them on her feet.

"Can you watch her while I change?" asked Athos. "I've got to huddle with her to try to get some warmth back into her body, and it will defeat the purpose if I try to hold her in these sodden clothes."

"Yeah, go on," replied Porthos, uneasily wondering if Athos' plan was such a good idea. "So, does her father know what's happened?"

"Charlotte said he is out of town" called Athos, rummaging around in his closet. "I think he's expected back in several days. She'll be back at the shop by then, and he won't need to be the wiser that she's spent the night here."

_Unless, of course, he happens to somehow find out_, thought Porthos grimly. _She only lives several streets away—it's not like she is from the other side of Paris._

When Athos returned, changed into a fresh shirt and breeches, he sat next to Charlotte, and dipped the washcloth into the warm water, soaping it up and gently washing the blood and dirt from her face. Porthos watched him silently, riveted by the tenderness he saw in Athos' face. This was a side to the man he had never seen before.

"I wish we could wash her hair," Athos said with regret, "but I'm afraid it would just make her colder."

"Perhaps you can brush it out?" suggested Porthos. Within minutes, her hair had been brushed as best as Athos could manage, and secured in a ribbon at her neck that he had taken from the remnants of her chemise.

"Can you help me get her to the bed?" asked Athos finally, his voice tired and hoarse. "After that, you need some rest."

Porthos nodded, and they carefully lifted Charlotte to Athos' bed, which was barely big enough to accommodate two people.

"Do you think you can both fit in there?" inquired Porthos, doubt showing in his face.

"Where there's a will, there's a way, my friend," replied Athos, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth for the first time in hours. He climbed in carefully beside Charlotte, wrapping two blankets around both of them, and settled her against his chest, his left arm snugly encircling her body.

"If you need anything, you know where to find me," said Porthos quietly. "I'll check on you in the morning." He shut the door behind him, blowing out the candle on the table as he left.

The room was slowly warming up, and the flickering flames of the fire cast dancing shadows on Charlotte's face. Unable to resist the impulse to watch her sleep, Athos turned her head gently towards him. Her long lashes fluttered slightly, and she became restless, tossing slightly. "Shhh…" he said softly, his fingers brushing lightly over her cheek. "Sleep now. I'm right by your side. I won't let you go."

Quieting a bit with his voice, she turned instinctively towards his touch, and he continued to talk, stroking her hair tenderly. "Porthos is right. You have been **so** good for me…you have no idea how good. I had almost forgotten what it was like-to feel so **alive** around someone. And this is so much better than with Anne—because I know you want **me**-not my title, or my lands, or my chateau—because you have no idea that I possess any of that."

He kissed the hair tucked behind her ear, and lowered his voice to a near whisper as his eyes searched her face. "And I am coming to realize how very much I want you-your kindness, your beauty, your intelligence—because you make me **feel** again. You make me laugh—and that has been a difficult thing for me to do for quite some time now. Your personality so has many layers, and each facet I uncover enchants me all over again."

Taking one of her hands in his, he brushed his lips over it, noting the barest flicker of a response as she allowed her fingers to relax. "I believe you are innocent of relations with men, yet there is a deep well of passion within you that is just waiting to be tapped by the lucky man who earns your love. My need for all that you are-it scares me more than I am willing to admit. Because if any harm were to come to you, I truly think I would go mad." Slipping his hand under the blanket, he felt her abdomen, and with relief realized that she was finally warming. Lowering his body again and pressing against her back, he wrapped his arm around her, and finally drifted off to sleep.

**Next time...more of Annamis...plus, Charlotte's father returns, and is taken aback to find that his daughter is not at home early on New Year's morning..**


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter XXXI...in which Anne and Aramis have some more family time, and Michel tries his hardest to make things difficult for Charlotte.**

**CHAPTER XXXI**

In the Queen's chambers, Aramis and Anne slept, their bodies finally sated with the burning need for each other. Her head pillowed on Aramis' chest, Anne roused when she heard the soft crying of her hungry son. She rolled over, intending to pick him up, but Aramis stayed her hand. "Let me-please. I've dreamed of this moment many a time."

He swung his legs off the bed and reached for the bassinet, which was two feet from the bed. Carefully scooping his son into his arms, he nestled him against his bare chest, softly speaking to him in Spanish, while one hand played with the baby's toes, making him squeal with laughter.

Sliding back into bed next to Anne, he laid the infant carefully in between them. "What do we do about feeding him?" he inquired uneasily. "Will you have to summon the wet nurse?" He hated the idea of this magical night being ended early.

"No," replied Anne simply. "I'll feed him myself." She lifted the baby and nestled him against her breast. He instinctively turned his head against her warm skin, and began to suckle, his little hand resting against the curve of her breast as he contentedly nursed, his eyes drowsing closed.

Aramis stared at her, shocked. "The Queen of France? Nursing her baby?"

"Believe me, no one knows—except Constance," replied Anne briefly.

"But—why? All noble women employ wet nurses."

"As do I." The Queen looked at him steadily. "And she feeds Louis during the day. I feed him first thing in the morning, and at bedtime. Several times a week, I insist he sleep with me. In that way, I am able to keep my milk flowing. As to why—because this is something I can do for him myself. You cannot imagine, Aramis—" she looked at him, her eyes shining with tears, "how much I love these moments I have alone with him. It makes me feel like a real mother—not just a woman who births a royal heir, then hands it over to someone else to raise, as if he were an annoyance, or a burden." Her voice lowered as she took one of the tiny hands in hers, the fingers curling in reflex at her touch. "Because he is neither. He is a gift-a wonderful, precious gift-and I thank God for him—and you—every day."

"What about the King?" asked Aramis, his eyes unable to leave the incredibly beautiful scene of the Madonna-like Anne nursing the baby, her blonde hair flowing over her shoulders and her blue eyes alight with the joy of having her son and his father together with her in the small hours of the morning.

"He has no idea. He would absolutely hate it if he knew. To be honest, that is probably another reason I love it so much."

Aramis laughed softly. "Despite your demure appearance, you are a rebel at heart."

"I suppose so." Anne gave him a coy look. "If not, I wouldn't be lying in bed with a musketeer and nursing his child, who is destined to be crowned as King of France."

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Back at the apothecary, Milady had finally put aside her disgust and slid back into bed next to Michel. The layout of the shop was now firmly implanted in her mind. She had had reason on more than one occasion to be thankful for the photographic memory she possessed. It was nearing dawn, and she tensed as she heard the door to the shop scrape open.

"Charlotte? Michel?" a voice called. _Old man Gaillard_. She elbowed Michel sharply in the ribs. "Wake up!" she hissed. "I think your employer has returned early."

Michel rolled over, blinking sleepily, and shook his head.

The sound of a child could be heard chattering happily, exclaiming over the colours of all the different powder and liquids in the jars on display.

"They are medicines, Madeleine, not for a little girl to play with or taste."

"I know, Mama," came the reproachful reply. "You already told me on the way, remember? Where is cousin Charlotte? I want to play with her."

"She's probably just getting ready for the day," replied her mother practically. "Uncle Bertrand, shall I go upstairs and see if she is awake?"

"Yes, Denise, go on," replied the apothecary affectionately. "It will be a wonderful surprise for her to have you and Madeleine here to visit."

"Get out there now!" whispered Milady furiously to Michel. "I've got to get out of here. It will do no good to get him angry with you for having an overnight visitor. Our goal now is to get you get back into his good graces. Distract him, and I'll slip out the back through the storeroom."

"Wait!" Michel dove for her as she jumped out of the bed, pulling on her dress. Hanging off the edge of the mattress, he moaned, "You're leaving so soon! When will I see you again?"

Milady stopped a moment to consider. "How about tonight? Do you know the Inn of the Three Arrows?"

"Yes, I do," replied Michel, delighted that he would get a chance to see this enchanting woman again so soon. "Seven o'clock?"

"Make it eight," said Milady, with a smile. "I'll plan to spend the night, if that suits you? You were quite the amazing lover last night."

Michel sat back in the bed to pull on his shirt, and grinned widely. "So I've been told." He put on his breeches in one quick motion, then stood up and pulled her to him, giving her a lingering kiss goodbye. "Til tonight, then."

"Eight o' clock," Milady replied in a sweet voice, practically pushing him out the door. "Now go get the old man out of my way, and I'll be off."

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Several minutes later, Michel wandered out into the shop, putting his brightest smile on his face. "Happy New Year, Monsieur Gaillard."

"Happy New Year, Michel," replied the apothecary jovially. He looked well rested and happy. "Where's my darling daughter? She hasn't been out all night, has she?" he said jokingly, knowing that was most certainly not the case where his responsible daughter was concerned.

"Well, I expect she should be home from the ball by now," answered Michel, hoping against hope that Charlotte had done something reckless.

"The ball? What ball?" asked Monsieur Gaillard, baffled. "Charlotte's never been to a ball in her life. She doesn't even possess anything remotely suitable to wear."

"She does now," replied Michel slyly. "It seems as if one of the musketeers has taken a shine to her, and has become a sort of a—patron-shall we say?"

"Which musketeer?" growled Charlotte's father, his eyes narrowing. "Not the one she cared for at the palace—what was his name?"

"Athos," helpfully supplied Michel. "Yes, I think that's the one. I really don't want to be put in the position of being an informer, but I feel compelled to tell you that there were some highly irregular goings-on here while you were gone."

"Meaning what?" asked Bertrand, his voice growing suspicious.

"Well, I happened to wake up the night before New Year's Eve, and found Charlotte and Athos in the shop. They were, erm...this is so difficult and painful to say-" he sniffled, his voice rather theatrically breaking, "-as you know Charlotte has always been like a sister to me. But I must say I was scandalized at what I saw. They were-kissing rather heatedly, and in appeared to be in the act of undressing each other. It was highly inappropriate, and very embarrassing for me. But be assured, I did not shirk my duty as your loyal apprentice. I read that Athos the riot act, sir, then beat him and tossed him out of the shop straightaway. He slunk off, his tail between his legs. I doubt you will see him back here again."

"Uncle," called Denise from the top of the stairs, her voice puzzled. "I don't see her anywhere. It looks as if her bed wasn't even slept in last night."

Bertrand's eyes clouded with anger.

"You might try the garrison," observed Michel airily. "I hear it is not unusual for musketeers to bring their conquests back to their quarters. I believe Captain Treville even encourages it—keeps up morale and all, you know."

"Denise! Madeleine!" shouted the apothecary, his voice trembling. "I have an errand to run. Make yourselves at home, and I should be back with Charlotte within the hour."

Michel asked soberly, "Monsieur, would you like me to go with you? My presence may cause this musketeer to think twice about causing any fuss.

Charlotte's father looked at him gratefully. "That would be very helpful. I am so glad I have you to count on, Michel."

"It is no trouble at all," answered the apprentice with a smile. "After all, I am here to serve."

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The cold, pale light of a winter dawn was just beginning to filter through the garrison. As it was New Year's Day, there were no drills planned, and all the men had been given a day of rest. Captain Treville sat at his desk, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. He was thankful he had succeeded in ushering the King and Queen out of the ballroom through a hidden side passageway, for he would never have forgiven himself if something had happened to them…or if Queen Anne had witnessed the horror that had unfolded after she left. It was bad enough that Charlotte Gaillard was likely to have nightmares for some time.

He rubbed his eyes, sighing heavily. Controlling the bear had proved easier than anyone could have anticipated. Despite its fierce appearance, the animal had readily followed a rather plucky servant who had had some experience with working with animals. The young man had held out a bowl of fish and berries, and easily was able to lure the surprisingly docile beast into a small dressing room near the ballroom. Within minutes, Petunia was peacefully feeding, then curled up on the rug and went to sleep. The snoring bear was oblivious to the fact that she was being held captive until she could be fed some meat laced with a sedative and then be transported out of the palace.

Now there was just the problem of the murdered chaplain. It was unsettling to think that a man had been strangled at a public event, just yards from the King.

Treville poured himself a cup of coffee, then opened one of the drawers of his desk and eyed a small bottle of brandy. _Why not_? he thought_. I earned it after last night, and I doubt anyone will come calling this morning._ Pouring a generous portion into his coffee, he leaned back and sipped it thoughtfully.

When Porthos had stopped by last night to inform him that Charlotte was safe, the Captain had been incredibly relieved. He had understood from Athos that Charlotte's father was out of town, and had dreaded having to inform the apothecary that his daughter had been injured, then abducted, by unknown criminals. The report of her hypothermia had concerned him a bit, but Porthos had assured him that her breathing and circulation seemed to be improving, although she was still unconscious.

Toying with his mug, Treville decided that he would stop by Athos' quarters in a few hours to check on her. He knew she would receive the best and most tender care possible from his lieutenant, who seemed to be very fond of her. If he were to find happiness with Charlotte, Treville mused, it could change everything.

The Captain worried about the number of nights that Athos stumbled home in a drunken state, supported by his comrades. Eventually the drink was going to take its toll on his health. In Treville's experience, it always did, no matter how healthy and fit the man was initially. The thought of the proud, independent Athos, dying at a young age from the ravages of liver disease, sent a chill up his spine. The Captain had often seen such men lying glassy-eyed in the street, frames wasted and skin yellowed.

Sipping some more of his coffee, he opened a large ledger, going over the accounts from the previous month. As he scanned the entries, someone pounded on his door. "Captain Treville! Open up!" Treville cocked his ear. He unfortunately knew that voice-Bertrand Gaillard. _This was not going to be good_. "I will have a word with you now! My daughter is missing, and I have good reason to believe she has been seduced by one of your men!" roared the apothecary. _So much for peace and quiet on New Year's morning_, Treville thought ruefully, and pushed back from his chair to answer the door.

Immediately upon unlatching the lock, Treville was nearly bowled over by Charlotte's father, his face red with anger. He was followed closely by a dark-haired young man, who, upon seeing no one in the room except Treville, immediately assumed a fierce attitude of bravado.

"So, this is how you repay me, Treville?" snarled Bertrand. "How you repay me for the hours my daughter spent in the palace tending your man who was near death? By allowing him to escort her to a ball, **without** my permission, then spirit her back to your garrison to have his way with her? Rest assured, the King or the Cardinal **will** hear of this."

Treville raised his hands, opening his palms to the man in a conciliatory gesture. "Monsieur Gaillard, the reality of the situation is nothing even close to that. Your daughter received an invitation from the King himself to attend the New Year's Eve Ball at the palace. He wished personally to thank her for her role in restoring Athos to health. In fact, King Louis appointed Athos,who has just been named as a godfather to the Dauphin, to serve as her escort in order that perfect propriety might be observed."

"Then how does she end up spending the night here? For you have essentially admitted as much."

"There was an—incident at the palace involving armed criminals. Your daughter was unfortunately caught up in it, and was kidnapped from the palace for a short period of time. Athos and another one of my men, Porthos, found her exposed to the elements on the street, and brought her here to treat her for hypothermia. If we go to Athos' quarters right now," concluded Treville firmly, "you will be reassured to see him keeping vigil by her bedside, much as she did for him."

His eyes narrowing suspiciously, the apothecary regarded Treville sceptically. "All right, then-lead on. I have brought my apprentice, Michel, with me. He is quite fond of Charlotte. We are both anxious to see if your conclusions are correct."

**Next time...Charlotte awakens, much to the joy of Athos...**

**Many, many thanks for all the reviews and follows...I've got a long weekend ahead at work, and your comments keep me motivated to keep plugging away on this story. I am a bit ahead, so hopefully will update this weekend...**


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter XXXII...in which Charlotte regains consciousness, and she and Athos have a moment alone...**

**CHAPTER XXXII**

Charlotte had begun to murmur in her sleep, and Athos gathered her close to him, tucking the blanket around her shoulders. Her body temperature had climbed to what seemed quite normal, and colour was returning to her face.

_Thank God,_ thought Athos, relief washing through his body

Shifting slightly, Charlotte turned against him, nestling against his side with her head pillowed on his shoulder. Athos felt a lump form in his throat, and he choked back a sob, all the fear and worry of the evening catching up with him. He stroked her jaw tenderly with his thumb, and her soft brown eyes opened as if by magic.

"Athos." She breathed his name, and an expression of peace floated across her face.

"Yes, I'm here. Sorry the evening turned out to be a bit longer of an engagement that I had originally planned—but I'm not complaining." His voice became husky. "At least, not now that I have you safe in my bed."

Charlotte's eyes flitted around the room, and she looked at him, confused. "Where am I?"

"My quarters," replied Athos gently. "Do you remember what happened?"

She furrowed her brow and thought, trying to piece together bits of information that floated through her brain, some drifting just out of reach. "I recall seeing you on the staircase…and then we went into the gallery where we had danced earlier-"

"And what did we do there?" asked Athos with a smile, hoping to coax the more pleasant memories back into her consciousness.

"You told me I was-" her voice sounded puzzled, "voluptuous? And you kissed me—I remember that-"

"Was it to your liking?" he inquired teasingly.

"Yes," she whispered, a hand tentatively reaching up to caress his face. "I didn't want to stop-but I was also afraid. I had never felt-"

Pausing, she began to cough, and he sat up, pulling her up higher on his chest, rearranging the blankets around them.

"Don't talk any more, just rest," Athos murmured soothingly, stroking her hair.

"No, I want to say it- I have never felt so much for another human being," she whispered, her eyes shining with tears. "It was like this amazing wave of joy, mixed with such a powerful wanting—I felt I was losing control, and it was honestly a bit scary. But seeing you here now—" she smiled up at him wistfully, "It seems very silly in retrospect."

"Emotions can be powerful," observed Athos softly. "Both negative-hate, anger, sorrow—" he thought of Milady, and realized in wonder that the usual anguished pain was not flooding his heart. "And the positive feelings-the ones that make life worth living—joy, trust, love…." His voice trailed off, and he hesitated. "Do you have any recollection of what led you to end up here?"

She shook her head, disturbed by the gap in her memory. "No—did something bad happen?" Suddenly, she became aware of a throbbing pain under her chin. Her fingers drifted up to touch where it hurt, and she recoiled when she felt the stitches. "I was injured?" The look she gave Athos told him that blessedly, she seemed to have complete amnesia for the events that had occurred after she had been pulled up onto the stage. _The only problem_, he thought uneasily,_ is that if the memories come back to her unexpectedly, when I am not with her, she may be terrified. Even now, the ghosts of Savoy come to torment Aramis-sometimes at night in his dreams, but other times during the light of day, when we are merely riding through the forest. I will have to talk her through the events of the evening, but now is not the time-perhaps later on today, when she is a bit stronger._

"Yes, but Porthos did a fine job sewing you up. Aramis will be jealous at how well the wound looks. You'll likely have a small scar, but no one will be able to see it."

"Like the one on my wrist." She lifted her arm to show him, the blanket sliding off her shoulder. "Hundreds of people must have seen this over the years, and you are the only one who has ever commented on it."

He took her wrist and kissed the mark. "It is what makes you unique. How did you get it?" He interlaced his fingers with hers, amazed by how slender and elegant her hands were, despite the amount of manual work she did on a daily basis.

"My father tells me I was reaching for a small vase when I was a small child. It was made of a deep ruby red glass, and the sun was shining on it. I was probably attracted to the warm colour. No sooner had I grasped it in my chubby little hand then I tripped, and fell. The vase shattered, and I got this cut. The doctor said it was a miracle that no important blood vessels were severed, although there was apparently a lot of blood. My mother almost died of fright."

Looking down at her arm, she stopped suddenly as she saw the sleeve of the giant linen shirt, then asked slowly, "What am I wearing?"

"Onep of Porthos' shirts," responded Athos calmly.

"Why?" her eyes met his, confusion clouding her face again. "What happened to my dress? My shoes?"

"You were—" he stopped, unsure how to explain, "-lost for a period of time, out in the cold. Your dress was ruined by the snow and mud, and you were developing hypothermia when we found you. We had to cut it off you to get you warm."

"Did you-" her voice faltered, and she averted her eyes in shame.

"No," he said firmly, turning her head to him again. "No. I would never expose your body for my own enjoyment while you were unconscious. Porthos and I made sure your modesty remained intact by the very astute use of a blanket."

She relaxed visibly. "I trust you."

"Just like I would never take advantage of you at this moment. Even if you begged." His eyes darkened with a hint of mischief. "Which you did, several times last night."

"What?" asked Charlotte in disbelief. "I did not!"

"Oh yes, you did," he answered with conviction. "To be fair, your mind was not clear-but you were quite insistent. In fact, Treville himself at one point knocked on the door and pleaded with me to keep you quiet. You had the whole garrison awake as you clamoured for me to indulge your desires."

Charlotte covered her eyes with her hands. "Please tell me you're joking."

"I wish I was," answered Athos soberly, his face grave.

"I will NEVER to able to look anyone from the garrison in the face again!" she groaned in despair. "Why didn't you just gag me?"

"Because that may have worsened it," he replied in a practical voice "After all, I know how you like the whole idea of restraint." Unable to hold back his mirth, he collapsed on the bed, gasping with hysterical laughter. "Your face-"

"You are an evil, despicable man!" She seized the pillow and hit him with it, not once, but twice.

Grabbing the pillow, he smirked. "I warned you. I explicitly told you that I would exact my revenge on you for teasing me when I was wounded and under the influence of painkillers-and that it would not be so easy for you to tell you were being told a tale." He stuffed the pillow under his back, and folded his arms behind his head, a satisfied grin on his face. "I'm quite proud of myself."

As she made a face at him, he began to chuckle again. "What? Come on, don't be like that- you have to admit it's funny."

Crawling toward him, an intent look on her face, she replied in a measured voice, "I do not have to admit any such thing."

Pouncing on his chest, she pushed him down on the bed, and as he laughed, she swept both his arms over his head, pinning them to the mattress. "This time, Monsieur, you have gone too far."

"Have I?" he inquired, arching an eyebrow at her. "And just what do you propose to do about it? I think I could easily overpower you, should I be so inclined."

"Unless I am mistaken, I do not think you are at all interested in escaping my clutches," she murmured in a low voice, kissing the side of his neck in a way that made him arch in pleasure underneath her. As he tried to decide what would be an appropriate response, the door flew open, and Charlotte froze, instantly realizing how compromising a position she was in.

**Next time...well, as you can surmise, Charlotte is not likely to have a joyous reunion with her father...**


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter XXIII..in which Charlotte and Athos are caught in a rather compromising position...**

**CHAPTER XXXIII**

The wholly unexpected sight of Charlotte Gaillard straddling Athos while passionately kissing his neck was bad enough, thought Treville in despair. But the fact that she had his arms pinned, and was dressed in a voluminous linen shirt that barely reached mid-thigh, made the situation a hundred times worse. He had honestly thought Bertrand was going to have a stroke on the spot.

"Monsieur Gaillard, I'm sure—" he had begun in a soothing voice, stepping in front of Bertrand to shield him from a view of the bed. When Charlotte had halted in place on top of him, Athos had smoothly sat up, pushing her behind his back so she could cover her exposed legs with the blanket. He knew that she was mortified by the idea of her father seeing her, but also instinctively sensed that she was incredibly uncomfortable with the sight of a smirking Michel gazing at her body.

Bertrand cut him off sharply. "Let me ask you this, Treville—do you have any daughters?"

"Well, no, but-"

"I thought not," snapped the apothecary, his voice seething with anger. "So **don't **insult my intelligence by trying to tell me what to feel or what to think…because the evidence in front of my eyes is **more** than adequate."

Athos reached for Charlotte's hand, and addressed her father respectfully. "Monsieur Gaillard, please allow-"

Bertrand gave him a look of utter contempt. "Do **not** even deign to speak to me. Only the lowest of men seduces an innocent girl in this fashion. It is said that a father whose daughter is lucky enough to capture the heart of a musketeer will have honour and glory reflected upon his family name. Well, you have succeeded in helping Charlotte to accomplish exactly the opposite. For all I know, you passed her around the entire garrison last night."

"Papa!" exclaimed a horrified Charlotte. "What is wrong with you? You know me better than that!"

"Do I?" he spat out coldly, walking towards her slowly. "The truth is, I really am not sure that I know you at all anymore. Several days ago, in fact, you fed me a tale of Michel approaching you in a less than gentlemanly fashion. At the time I believed you, but now I wonder if it was an attempt to distract me from the real object of your affections."

As Charlotte leaned against Athos's solid back, subconsciously drawing strength from him, her father snarled, "You have been on a campaign to deceive me, haven't you? I should have known better. Michel has never been anything but loyal-and our customers love him. In fact, the truth is that if it were not for him, our business would have gone bankrupt a year ago." At his words, Michel stood up even straighter, and glanced at Athos with a barely concealed, and rather gloating, grin.

Lowering his voice, Bertrand continued speaking, his words precise as his eyes remained intent on his daughter. "My health will not allow me to keep up with the long hours that an apothecary must put in daily. That is why I have contemplated giving Michel your hand in marriage—he has earned it, and it would secure your future after I am gone. However, due to your recklessness, that chance may have passed us by. I am not at all sure that a man such as Michel, who is held in high esteem by our community, would want to throw in his lot with a loose woman who cavorts with soldiers in such a fashion."

He turned his head, not even attempting to hide his disgust. "I can't even look at you. Put some clothes on so you at least don't look like a whore, even though you are acting like one."

Heading for the door, he suddenly stopped. "I'll be waiting for you in the Captain's office." Turning slightly, but failing to meet her eyes, he said in a trembling voice, "Every day since your mother died, I have awoken each morning to wish that she could be here with us. Today, for the first time, I thank God that she is not alive to witness what you have become."

Voice catching, he blinked back tears and exited the room, Treville following with a rueful look. The Captain closed the door, and silence descended upon the room.

Charlotte was attempting to remain unruffled, but Athos could tell that she was very much upset. Going to her, he put his arms around her, and said quietly, "He doesn't mean it. Anger is making him say things he will deeply regret later."

Her breath hitching, Charlotte buried her face against his shoulder, her palms pressing against his chest. "He has no idea that you are the bravest, truest man in France."

"Some would argue that," Athos observed dryly. "Notably, my ex-wife."

Looking up at him, Charlotte decided to ask the question that had been eating at her for quite some time. "Is her name Anne?"

Shocked, Athos simply stared at her. "How did you know?"

"When you were—wounded," she swallowed, avoiding his eyes, "You called for her. The pain in your voice was unmistakable. I knew she was someone you loved, or had loved—very much."

"Did it bother you?" Athos murmured, searching her face to discern her reaction.

"Honestly? Yes." she admitted. "Even then. I had the sense that you were—a man of principle. A good man." She paused, then her voice became fierce. "You deserve a woman who will stand by your side, through good times and bad. A woman who-" her voice choked.

He looked down at her, his face softening. "A woman who—" he prompted, bending down to kiss her, his lips touching against hers so quickly that it almost seemed like a dream.

"Loves you the way you deserve to be loved," she whispered. "Wholeheartedly," she returned his kiss, instinctively deepening it, "with no reservations, with no-regrets," she breathed, abandoning herself to the sensation of being cherished by a man whom she was coming to realize that she adored, heart and soul. His hands skimmed over her back, and she leaned into his touch, only vaguely realizing that she was meant to be reporting to Captain Treville's office.

"Aren't you meant to be somewhere?" murmured Athos, his hands cupping her bottom and pulling her even closer.

"Yes," she answered, her voice thick with emotion. "With you."

The softness of her body kindled a flame of desire within Athos that threatened to overwhelm him. His hands drifted up, encircling her waist, then slowly rising up to traverse her ribcage. He stopped as he touched the swell of her breasts, breathing heavily.

"No. Not here." he muttered hoarsely. "Not now."

"I want you, Athos," Charlotte choked, her voice desperate. "I don't care about the consequences."

"Charlotte," he murmured, nestling his face into her hair and speaking softly into her ear. "You are not being rational, and I am barely able to think straight myself…but I do know that I do not want to even consider making love to you in a rushed, frantic tumble on my sorry excuse for my bed—especially after knowing each other a little more than a week. You deserve so much more—and you absolutely must know the entire story of my wretched life. My former wife is still alive, and would kill me in an instant if the opportunity presented itself."

He sighed heavily, and tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. "Although every fibre of my being is on fire for you, I think too much of you to take you into my bed without full disclosure of my past and a firm promise for the future. I will not risk ruining your life by getting you with child just to satisfy the urge—no matter how strong—to possess you, body and soul. It would be so far from my idea of honour that I would not be able to live with myself."

Tilting her chin up to look at him, he said gently, "You know I am right. This is not how you were raised, either. Besides, if your father were to return—" he grinned, "-remember that here at the garrison, he is within reach of the largest weapons cache in Paris."

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Ten minutes later, Athos escorted Charlotte to Treville's office. When put to the test, Porthos had succeeded in picking the lock on Aramis' room, and had proudly returned to Athos' quarters with a green wool dress that was surprisingly modest for a woman who might spend the night with Aramis, as well as stockings and a pair of shoes. The shoes were a bit tight, and the dress a bit large, but at least Charlotte was fully dressed.

Athos squeezed her hand as he knocked on the door. "Don't worry, we will figure this out. If your father is anything like you, he will see reason—eventually."

"As in two years from now?" replied Charlotte despondently as she heard Treville call out for them to enter. Pushing the door open, she was met with the sight of her father and Michel sitting across from the Captain, both appearing irate. Porthos was leaning against the wall, arms crossed. His eyes met Athos', and he shook his head slightly.

"Athos, Charlotte!" said Treville brightly, "Come in, come in! We have been having some discussions, and Monsieur Gaillard has expressed a sincere interest in hearing your side of the story, Athos. He feels it is the least-" he gave the apothecary a pointed look, "—that he can do to thank you for saving his daughter's life. Isn't that right, Bertrand?" Charlotte's father grunted, shrugging his shoulders as he stared at his shoes.

Treville motioned for Porthos to step forward. "Porthos, would you please escort Mademoiselle Gaillard to the kitchen? I have it on good authority that Serge is preparing his famous raisin scones to celebrate the New Year." He lowered his voice conspiratorially and winked at Charlotte. "They melt in your mouth—a veritable piece of heaven." Porthos took Charlotte by the arm and led her out, carefully closing the door behind them.

An uncomfortable silence descended upon the room. "So, let's begin, shall we?" said Treville, attempting to project an atmosphere of reconciliation with his calm, authoritative voice. "Bertrand, we all know what we saw in Athos' quarters. But—" he held his hand up as Michel attempted to speak, giving him a threatening look that had caused much stronger men to quail, "-Athos is one of my finest and bravest men. His actions day in and day out are characterized by integrity, justice, and honour. I would trust him with my life, and that of my daughter, if I had one. So, I will require that you hear him out, without interruption, before you leave with Charlotte. And I also ask that you do him the courtesy of looking him in the eye."

Monsieur Gaillard shifted uncomfortably, but lifted his eyes and regarded Athos with a silent, but unmistakably hostile, expression.

Athos stood in front of the apothecary, his face honest and voice respectful. "Monsieur, I will make this short, but I mean every word that I say. Five years ago, I lost in quick succession the two people in the world that I loved the most. I was mired in grief, and for a short time even thought of taking my own life. All the plans and dreams I had had for the future had vaporized in a matter of just a few hours. I spent the days sleeping, and the nights drinking heavily. There was nothing left in life that brought me joy, and I fell into the habit of neglecting the people who counted on me to dispense justice."

He paused for a moment, and a shadow passed over his face. "As a result of my dereliction of duty, a family consisting of a couple and their twin five year old daughters died. They had been harassed for some time by a mentally unstable neighbour, and had attempted on multiple occasions to see me to request assistance. I had made myself—unavailable-during that period of time. As a result, I could look to no one but myself to shoulder the blame."

"The guilt literally crushed me, and I was again tempted to end my life. However, I realized that only a weak and worthless man would take such an easy way out. Instead, I determined to make sure that every day for the rest of my life, I would endeavour to protect the weak, avenge those unjustly treated, and life my life with honour."

His eyes met Bertrand's, his gaze direct and open. "Charlotte saved my life, Monsieur, and I owe her a great debt. As I have become acquainted with her, I have come to realize that she is very special indeed. You should be extraordinarily proud of the woman she has become—kind, honest, generous, and intelligent. I swear upon my life that I have never and would never abuse or violate her in any way. What you saw earlier was simply the result of flirtation that had been heightened by the emotion of having narrowly escaped death. Even if you cannot forgive me, I beg you to forgive Charlotte. I will fully accept the blame for the grief we have caused you, but I ask you for the chance to redeem myself in your eyes. I will happily accept whatever terms you place on our interactions, but I ask you for the chance to allow me to earn your respect and your daughter's love."

During all this, the apothecary's face had remained impassive, but then he began to applaud mockingly. "Very touching, Monsieur. Perhaps it has worked on other men in the past, but you must believe me to be dim-witted if you think I will ever let you near my daughter again."

Athos, taken aback, fell silent for a moment, then said quietly, "I believe you are making a mistake, Monsieur, but if you feel she needs some distance for a period of time, so be it. I only ask that you let me have a few minutes to talk her through all that happened last evening. There are some large gaps in her memory, and I fear that she may be overwhelmed if she recalls flashes of what happened, but has no true idea of the course of the events that occurred."

"Captain Treville has filled me in," replied Bertrand curtly. "I know enough to be aware that Charlotte's reward for accompanying you to the ball was to almost get her throat slit. Oh yes, and then she was abducted by a man who probably intended to rape her, but decided to dump her in the street when she became too much of a burden. I don't think there are any gaps in this rather sordid tale that need to be filled in. Captain Treville, please lead me to the kitchen so I can claim my daughter."

He stood up, hat in hand, and headed for the door. Treville gave Athos a look of regret, and hastened to follow the apothecary. As they left the room, Michel stood up as well, and walked to the threshold, then turned to look back.

"Make no mistake, she is dear to me," growled Athos in a low, dangerous voice. "If you hurt her in any way, you will pay quite a price."

Leaning against the threshold nonchalantly, Michel smirked. "Do I look concerned? No. And that's because Monsieur Gaillard and I have nearly finished working out the terms of the marriage contract. But won't worry—when I carry Charlotte to the bridal chamber and thoroughly enjoy breaking her in, I will be thinking of you—and laughing."

When Athos thought about that moment sometime later, he did not even remember crossing the room and barrelling into Michel. The next thing he knew, he had pinned the apprentice against the railing outside Treville's office, and was doing his best to choke the life out of him.

**Next time-Anne and Aramis must reluctantly part from each other after their night together...and yes, we will get back to the garrison once Michel has been tortured a bit more...**


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter XXXIV...in which Athos still has his hands tightly wound around Michel's neck, and Anne and Aramis reluctantly part in the light of day...but take their time saying farewell...**

**CHAPTER XXXIV**

Charlotte had been nervously hovering by the window of the kitchen, despite Porthos' best attempts to distract her. She had not even touched the delicious-looking scones that Serge had placed in front of them, slathered with butter right out of the oven. When she finally caught a glimpse of her father coming down the stairs, she was disheartened to see that he looked even more furious.

Standing behind her, Porthos put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "He'll come 'round," he said softly. "Once he gets to know Athos a bit, he'll realize how wrong he was to judge him so quickly—and so harshly."

"I wish I shared your optimism," murmured Charlotte pensively. At that moment, however, her attention was distracted by a commotion outside the Captain's office. As she looked up, her blood ran cold when she saw Athos grappling with Michel. The musketeer gained the upper hand quickly with a well-placed blow to the jaw, and had his adversary trapped against the railing on the balcony in an instant.

Reeling from the punch, Michel dropped his hands, trying to steady himself. Athos took advantage of the opening to close his hands around the apprentice's throat, leaning him backwards over the railing.

"Porthos, he'll hang if he kills Michel!" Charlotte had started to dart across the courtyard before the words were even out of her mouth, but Porthos was even quicker. For a big man, he moved with the grace of a cat, and had scaled the stairs to reach Athos' side in a matter of seconds.

He could not recall ever having seen Athos look so intense, so focused, and so full of hatred—even when he had confronted Milady in the square and had pretended to try to kill d'Artagnan. When Porthos first seized his arm, his friend threw him off with a powerful elbow to the ribs.

"Athos, leave 'im!" shouted Porthos in frustration. "He's not worth it!"

Athos' eyes were trained on Michel. "I want to watch him die."

He said it so quietly that at first Porthos was not sure if he had heard correctly. Michel was beginning to turn blue, and Athos turned to look at Porthos with a vacant look of desperate pain. "I don't want him to even breathe the air that Charlotte breathes, let alone touch her…and the thought of him marrying her and making love to her...I cannot…I will not allow it, Porthos."

"Athos!" The cry came from behind Porthos, and Charlotte pushed past him to plead with Athos. "Please, don't do this! This is not who you are. The warm, honourable, upright man I know would never kill someone vigilante style!"

Her words seemed to have little effect, and she dropped to her knees and clutched at the sleeve of his leather doublet.

"Please! If you have any feelings for me at all, stop! I could not bear to see you hanged like a common criminal! ATHOS! For me! Stop, I beg you!" Her voice cracked and she began to sob in earnest.

As if he had been released from a trance, Athos looked down to see Charlotte's panicked face. He stepped back, releasing his grip on Michel. The apprentice slumped to the ground, gasping for air. Pulling Charlotte to her feet, Athos drew her into his arms and hugged her fiercely.

"I will not let him hurt you." He then shouted, his voice trembling with rage, "Do you hear me, Michel? It is only because of her intervention that you still draw breath. Next time, I **will** kill you, make no mistake."

His hands were shaking, and Charlotte took them in hers to attempt to calm him. Turning to Bertrand, his voice resolute, Athos said with absolute conviction, "Mark my words, Monsieur, your daughter's spirit will be broken if you move forward with the foolish idea to wed her to this sorry excuse for a man. What kind of father wants to see his daughter sentenced to such a life?"

Bertrand, not intimidated, stepped forward and replied, his voice icy, "One who wishes to save her immortal soul. Perhaps the current state of affairs is my fault for not sending her to the convent as her mother had wished. Nevertheless, I will not see her involved with a musketeer whom I have just witnessed trying to kill a man who has literally supported my daughter and my business without complaint. Such steadfast responsibility marks a man of true honour, not your violent attempts at intimidation."

Taking Charlotte firmly by the elbow, he led her out of the garrison. As her figure receded into the distance, Athos kept his eyes focused on her until she was no longer visible. Once she had vanished, he put his hat on. "Captain. Porthos. I will see you for muster tomorrow morning. I intend to remain untraceable for the rest of the day. Do not attempt to follow or find me, as I will not be fit company for any human being for quite some time."

Striding out of the garrison at a purposeful pace, he quickly moved through the marketplace, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was following him. His mind, reliving the events of the past twenty four hours, led him on a circuitous route into one of the seedier quarters of Paris. Usually Athos was content to drink away his troubles with his friends within eye contact. However, on the few occasions when he was in such a bitter mood that he could not stand to even be near those he was closest to, Athos habitually came to a rundown tavern that he had stumbled across several years ago. At that time, he had been charged with investigating the murder of a dissolute nobleman who was one of the King's trusted advisors. The trail of evidence had led him straight to the Black Swan and the motley assortment of criminals who frequented it. Two hours and six bottles of wine later, he had been able to extract a confession from one of the customers, who had then found himself booked for an appearance at the scaffold.

The man whom he had arrested had been troublesome for the tavern owner for some months, and he was relieved to have his problem customer permanently removed from the premises. Motioning for Athos to join him in the wine cellar, he had whispered, "Wine on the house, whenever you want. Just don't wear the pauldron in 'ere. I don't want to get a reputation for caterin' to the good guys."

Athos had inclined his head. "Understood." Perhaps once or twice a year, he would make his way into the tavern and take the small table at the farthest end of the room. This particular table was near a drafty window, and was almost always left uninhabited due to the chill. For Athos, however, it suited him well to be removed from the action and warmth of the main part of the room. He would gather his cloak around him, pull his hat down low over his head, and drink steadily until he had entered such a state of oblivion that whatever had driven him to seek solace in a bottle was well forgotten. He filled his goblet, downed it rapidly, and drank another in quick succession. The pain in Charlotte's face when she left the garrison was still fresh in his mind, and he began to doubt that there was enough wine in France to make him forget her for any period of time.

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As the morning light crept insidiously into Anne's bedchamber, Aramis gazed at the sleeping Queen, who was cuddling their son, and realized that he had never been so unhappy to see a new day dawn. Despite his tendency to enjoy life's pleasures into the wee hours of the morning, Aramis was definitely a morning person, as was d'Artagnan. For the lad, it likely had something to do with growing up on a farm. Aramis? Well, he was just wired that way.

Watching the baby sleep in the arms of his mother, Aramis desperately wished that every day was like this. He finally roused Anne gently, and placed the baby in the bassinette. He coaxed her to tell him the whole story of the note in her prayer book and the marked passages in her Bible. When she had finished, he had felt a real, gnawing fear enter his soul. His face betrayed his thoughts, and Anne looked at him anxiously.

"I had started to think I had overreacted and that maybe it was a cruel prank… but you believe it is a real threat." Her voice was nervous. "How could someone know?" she blurted out. "It would be impossible. Only Athos was there to see anything."

Aramis looked at her, his deep brown eyes troubled. "There are two possibilities. One is that someone suspects the paternity of the Dauphin to be in question, but has no proof. This could be a strategy of sorts, meant to shake you up and provoke some kind of reaction or indiscretion. It would be entirely cruel and twisted, though."

"Not the King..." Anne said nervously.

"You told me you had lain with him—" Aramis paused, realizing how much he hated the thought of Anne even being alone in the same room with Louis, then continued on carefully "—within a week of when we were together."

"I did," Anne said fiercely. "God help me, I thought I would scream when he touched me. After having been loved by you in such a passionate, yet tender way, then going back to his bed-there is no other word for it than awful. But I was determined that he never suspect the child was not his—and the only way that could happen was by submitting to him."

"So he has no reason to have any doubts," said Aramis practically. "In any event, even if he did suspect such a thing—the King is many things, but subtle is not one of them. This is not his method of dealing with problems."

"Richelieu?" suggested Anne uneasily. "It would be more his style."

"Possibly, but why not just go to the King? It really does not have his signature on it either. Besides, this person has at least a passing familiarity with Scripture," he grinned, "—which is something I doubt our dear Cardinal has."

"The second possibility?" Anne asked.

"Someone has direct knowledge of us having been together."

"Impossible." Anne dismissed the idea outright.

"Is it?" he looked at her inquiringly. "After our third—or was it fourth?—round that night, I do recall actually dropping off to sleep. I doubt you remained awake all night-although I am quite certain that my skill at pleasuring you surely woke up every part of your body at some point."

She made a face at him. "On second thought, you and the King do have more in common than me—you both have extremely high opinions of yourselves."

He caught her hand and kissed it. "Ah, but that is only a problem when the object of our affections does not share that opinion…and I have no fear of that where you are concerned. You sang-or should I say screamed?—my praises quite a few times that night."

"You are incorrigible!" She rolled on top of him, the defined muscles of his abdomen sliding against her body in a way that never failed to thrill her. She kissed him along the curve of his collarbone, causing his dark, mischievous eyes to light up in delight, and he flashed her the seductive smile that had sealed her fate from the first moment she saw him. Anne looked at him indulgently, as if she were talking to a small child. "I must warn you that this morning, I am quite immune to your charms, Monsieur. I shall have to discipline you if you continue on in this fashion."

He laughed, taking a lock of her blonde hair and twirling it around his finger. "That tone of voice, my love, only works for its intended purpose if you are an old crone dressed like a sanctimonious governess. When a gorgeous woman is lying on top of me naked and saying the same thing, it conjures up quite a different picture in my mind-of discipline, that it." He grinned, swatting her bottom playfully.

"Well, don't be so sure you will be the one in control. I happen to know your Achilles' heel now," she said sweetly, sitting up and seizing one of his feet. "I had no idea you were so ticklish until last night."

Kicking his foot out from his grasp, he began to wrestle with her in earnest. She was surprisingly strong for a petite woman, but within a minute, he had forced her to concede she was beaten.

"If only defeat was always this pleasant," she whispered as his hands roamed over her.

Out in the courtyard, sounds began to be heard—grooms calling to one another, horses whickering, carts rolling across the cobblestones.

Realizing that he would need to leave soon to avoid prying eyes, he sighed.

"I hate to say it, but I-."

She put her fingers on his lips. "I know…but don't say it. I can't bear to hear it. This was so lovely. Perhaps—just once more? We have at least fifteen minutes before anyone comes looking for me."

"Anne," he said reproachfully, "We promised each other last night that we wouldn't make a habit of this."

"Alright, we won't," she agreed coyly. "We will make it a tradition instead."

Groaning at her stubbornness, he flipped her deftly onto her back. "I suppose I must be a slave to your directives, since you** are** the Queen of France."

"That's more like it," she replied in a soft voice, smiling at him with a speculative look in her eyes. "And in fact, I have some fairly explicit instructions for you, but remember-the clock is ticking. So try not to get too creative."

"Your wish is my command," he murmured, and then listened to her attentively, his grin widening.

**Next time...Milady begins to put into motion her plan for Athos' destruction.**


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter XXXV...in which Milady works to manipulate Michel, and Aramis is noticed when he attempts to slip out of the palace...**

**CHAPTER XXXV**

Early on New Year's morning, Aramis made his way down the staircase from the queen's sitting room to the chapel, an exuberant smile on his face. Anne had assured him that it would be easy to slip out undetected. After all, no one was ever in the chapel that early in the morning, especially on New Year's Day. Emerging into the cool air of the sacred space and closing the door behind him softly, he stopped in his tracks when he a small boy kneeling in front of the statue of the Virgin Mary where he himself had prayed several days ago.

Backing up to retrace his steps, he inadvertently knocked over a stack of hymnals that had been piled on top of a small table, and winced as they fell to the ground with a loud thud.

Gabriel looked up, and his thin face, which seemed paler than usual, lit up to see his new friend.

"Monsieur Aramis!" he exclaimed. "I did not realize you spent the night!"

Momentarily lost for words, Aramis recovered quickly. "Actually, my friend, I slept at the garrison. I just came back early to -to do a final inspection of the palace grounds to ensure all is secure after the unfortunate events of New Year's Eve."

He suddenly noticed that the boy was staring at him. "Weren't you wearing the same clothes last night?" Gabriel asked slowly, a puzzled expression on his face.

Aramis laughed, doing his best to appear careless. "My boy, I'm a musketeer! All of my clothes look alike." He leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, "It's called a **uniform**. More importantly, what are you doing alone in a chapel on New Year's Day?"

The page looked down, becoming quiet. "I was—thinking—and praying."

"You looked very intent," responded Aramis in a companionable tone. "I am sure God was listening."

"I was remembering my father," Gabriel murmured. "He died two months ago today. I was also thinking of Father Marcel, the palace chaplain. You must have heard that he was killed last night, at the ball. Everyone is talking about it."

"Did you know him?" asked Aramis gently, sitting down on the kneeler next to Gabriel.

"Yes," said the boy, his lower lip beginning to tremble. "He was kind to me when I came here. Everything was new, and I was—very lonely. He took me on a tour of the palace, and made sure I had tea with the Queen. I got to hold the Dauphin that day." He looked up at Aramis and smiled wistfully. "He was so little then- just a brand new baby."

Something about the boy touched Aramis' heart. He had an instinctive feeling that Gabriel was still a bit lost in the ceremony and etiquette of the palace. _He probably desperately wishes he was at home with his family to celebrate the New Year. Here, he really has no one to look out for him_. The musketeer felt a pang of remorse. Admittedly, he had seized the chance to mentor the page in order to have a ready excuse to see his son from time to time. However, as he looked at Gabriel, he decided that the boy likely needed the structure of the relationship just as badly as he did, but for a more noble reason.

"How would you like start the New Year off by visiting the garrison?" Aramis inquired slowly. "I have to warn you," his face assumed an expression of mock gravity, "there may not be much there to entertain a boy. There is always a lot of action—combat training, sword lessons, marksmanship practice…that sort of thing. You probably would find it boring."

"Can we go now?" blurted out Gabriel, his face shining. "I've never held a sword or fired a musket. Please?"

Aramis chuckled, and clapped a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Well, there won't be much going on today, as it's a holiday, but how about tomorrow morning? You might even get a decent breakfast out of it if our cook, Serge, is in a good mood."

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As evening fell and snow flurries began to fall, the traffic on the streets became thinner. Milady drew her cloak around her, threading her way towards the destination for her meeting with Michel. Rounding the last corner, she sighed in relief as she saw the inn loom into view.

The Inn of the Three Arrows was a rather uninspiring timber frame building, with really nothing to make it stand out from the hundreds of other taverns and inns in Paris. Even the sign proclaiming its name was old and faded, and it was often difficult to tell how many arrows were actually protruding from the quiver that had been fancifully painted on it some years ago. However, once one stepped inside the establishment, the layout was quite singular.

The main taproom was the oldest part of the inn, and dated back two hundred years. Other various rooms had been haphazardly added on over the decades, and the interior resembled a large rabbit warren, with some of the floors tilting at angles that varied markedly from the horizontal, even for those customers who were completely sober.

Milady had found this inn to be an excellent place for conducting her affairs, as she could request to be seated in one of the back rooms that were far from the alert eyes of musketeers or anyone else who might deign to be interested in whatever plot she currently had underway. She had ensured tonight that she and Michel were to dine in the smallest and most remote of these rooms. The space was little larger than a commodious closet, but offered the privacy and quiet that most of the other rooms did not possess.

She was already waiting when Michel arrived, his vacantly handsome face breaking into an appreciative grin when he saw the low-cut crimson gown that she was wearing. "You look ravishing," he said flirtatiously, giving her a lingering kiss.

"Business first," she answered with a smile, groaning inside as she tried to think of how she could ply Michel with enough alcohol to discourage him from any clumsy attempt to bed her later that evening. "So, how was your day? Did your employer have a heart-warming reunion with his daughter?"

Michel barked out a laugh, and fished a roll out of the basket on the table, taking a hearty bite out of it. "Hardly," he mumbled, his mouth full.

"Care to elaborate?" she inquired.

"Actually," he leaned forward conspiratorially, "It was quite the domestic drama. He arrived home to find Charlotte was nowhere to be found."

"Really?" Milady asked, her voice betraying her interest. "You mean she had spent the night somewhere else?"

"Yes!" he crowed. "The garrison—with her lover the Musketeer. But the best part was when we walked in on them when they were-occupied, shall we say?"

"Meaning what?" she asked sharply.

"Well, she was dressed in one of his shirts and was on top of him, kissing him in a rather lustful fashion." He grinned. "Her father was furious."

The hot flame of jealousy flared within Milady. She often found it curious that even though she would be willing to kill Athos in a heartbeat, the thought of him loving someone other than herself drove her wild with fury. She spoke, trying to keep her voice even. "Is that so? Then what happened?"

"Charlotte went down to the kitchen and her father, I, Athos, and Captain Treville met in his office. I must say that Athos is quite the sanctimonious bore. He gave this priggish speech about honour and virtue, and how he had become a musketeer after the grief of losing two people he loved….I was honestly more bored than I was last Sunday in church. Then he asked for permission to court Charlotte."

Milady's green eyes were thoughtful. "And let me guess—her father said no."

"You—" Michel waved another roll at her, "—are very clever! Yes, he said no. Then Athos attempted to attack me, but I easily threw him off and warned him not to provoke me again."

"All's well that ends well," responded Milady absently, her brain working furiously.

Suddenly, she looked at Michel and smiled. "Enough about them. Michel, what do you want out of life? What are your goals?"

Wondering if Milady was sizing him up as a marriage prospect, the apprentice puffed out his chest and sat a little taller. "Well, to run my own apothecary—and be fabulously wealthy...with a beautiful woman by my side, of course."

Ignoring his comment, Milady mused, "There are so many apothecaries at the moment in Paris, and quite a few have brought new knowledge and techniques from other countries. It seems like the most successful ones branch out beyond the standard cough remedies and rheumatism cures."

Michel nodded sagely. "Yes, when one adds skin creams to the list of items sold, it can be quite profitable."

Milady looked at him intently, her green eyes sparkling. "I was thinking of something more—inventive. Aphrodisiacs? Or perhaps what are lately called inheritance powders...it's become quite fashionable in certain circles to dabble in them, from what I understand. And peddling them can be very lucrative."

Looking over his shoulder, Michel whispered urgently, "Inheritance powders? You mean—poison?"

"That **is** a quick way to get one's hands on an inheritance that threatens to remain years away due to the robust health of a relative. And if the relative is somewhat infirm, well, the results can be almost instantaneous."

"But..." Michel glanced around uneasily, making sure no one was within earshot. "That's murder!"

"You just sell the powder," said Milady soothingly. "For all you know, it's for a rat, or a wolf that is troubling a farmer. And if it happens to be used on a person, it could even be an act of mercy, if they are suffering from a terminal illness. Monsieur Gaillard, for instance—" her slim fingers wrapped around the stem of her goblet, clenching the metal tightly. "You have said he is not well. How did he do with the whole drama at the garrison?"

"Well, when we were walking back, he had to stop twice because of chest pain—and when we got home, he could not even try to climb the stairs for a good hour or so, because he was having trouble breathing."

"You see!" Milady murmured encouragingly. "What if your employer were to come to you and tell you that the burden of life with his illness had become too much, and begged you to help him die. What would you do?"

"Erm—I don't know," said Michel in a hesitant voice.

"Yes, you do! Of course you would help him, for you are that kind of man. Loyal, resourceful—" she paused, then narrowed her eyes further. "And what if you saw him struggling with the simple daily tasks of life, gasping for air with every breath—would you not be doing him a favour to perhaps slip a bit of poison laced with sedative into his wine and bid him drink a medicinal glass? It would be a mercy to aid such a suffering man to die in a dignified, peaceful way."

"I'd like to lace Athos' wine with a poison," muttered Michel, glaring at the bottle of wine in front of him as if it was the musketeer.

"You'd like to make him suffer, wouldn't you?" inquired Milady sympathetically. "I don't blame you. This man sounds like a menace to society. However—" she paused theatrically. "Poisoning him might be too kind. If he were to be accused of poisoning someone, though-perhaps someone he has been very angry with recently-"

"Oh no!" Michel shook his head adamantly. "I am not letting anyone attempt to poison me, even if it were assured I would survive."

_Not you, you idiot!_ thought Milady, annoyed beyond belief. _Do I have to spoon feed you everything?_

"I was thinking of old man Gaillard," she said softly, her voice cool and deliberate. "You could do the man a kindness by allowing him to die peacefully, on his own terms…while framing Athos, and—if you wish, Charlotte—to take the fall."

Michel put down the glass of wine he had just emptied. "You—" he muttered, a smirk spreading across his face, "—are not only clever, you're a genius!"

**Next time…Charlotte and Athos mourn each other's absence…**

**I am feeling not so great right now...have come down with a nasty cold after working too many hours at my real job this weekend. Please send virtual chicken soup (302pilot, you're the best!) my way...**


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter XXXI...in which Athos longs for Charlotte, and Milady puts her plan into motion...**

**CHAPTER XXXVI**

As the night wore on, Athos' mood became darker. He found it hard to believe that just hours ago, he had awoken with Charlotte lying next to him, pressed against his body. She had blinked at him sleepily, then given him a smile so sweet that he had had to fight to hold back the tears of relief that had threatened to overwhelm him.

When he had realized that she could not recall the hours that she had been separated from him, his heart had twisted to think how close she had come to dying. It troubled him that those memories were hovering at the edges of her brain. He had seen men he had fought with recall incidents that had once been lost to them, only to battle against those demons for the rest of their lives. _If only I had talked her through everything this morning. I got caught up in the thrill of feeling her skin against mine, of teasing her…and knowing she was safe. If she awakens with nightmares, I will have only myself to blame._

He stared at the bottle in front of him, judging that a little less than a third was left to drink. Perhaps after that, he would walk the streets of Paris and try to clear his mind in the relative silence of the night.

"Trouble in paradise?" The voice was breathy and sultry, and so akin to Anne's that his heart stopped for a minute. Looking up, however, he saw that it belonged to a petite blonde in a midnight blue, low-cut dress. She sat on the edge of his table, regarding him with a practiced eye.

"Hardly," he responded bitterly.

"In hell then?" she inquired with a smile. "Trouble with a woman, I'm guessing? I can make you forget her, handsome. At least for the night." Her small, light fingers ran along the side of his face, hoping to provoke a reaction.

He filled his goblet, then drank deeply, avoiding her eyes. "I'm not interested." His voice was flat and lifeless.

"That's what they all say at first," she murmured, circling behind him to lower her mouth to his neck, skimming her lips along his skin. "You haven't even asked what the price is, or what I'm willing to do for you in order to help you forget the woman who has made you miserable."

"I don't want to forget," Athos replied, jerking away, his body restless. "In fact, I want to remember so much that-" he stopped, pushed back from the table, and stood up, swaying almost imperceptively. Pushing past her, he emerged into the cold air and gazed up at the night sky, noting the thick fog that was beginning to descend onto the city. Coming to a decision, he set off at a quick pace in the direction from whence he had come.

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Charlotte lay in bed, unable to sleep. Every muscle in her body seemed to hurt, and she supposed it was as a result of the time she had spent exposed to the elements the night before. The walk back to the shop earlier that day had seemed to be the longest journey of her life, although she knew rationally that it had been only a ten minute walk. Her father's pace had slowed after a bit, and he had stopped at a corner, leaning against the wall to try to catch his breath. Charlotte had stared at him, anger coursing through her body.

As his wheezing had slowed, he had looked up and spoke to her gruffly. "Charlotte, give me your arm. The sooner we get back home, the sooner we can put all this mess behind us."

"Is that what you think?" she had asked, her voice incredulous. "You think that I'm just going to go back to the shop and carry on as if I had never met Athos?"

"We've already discussed this. The matter is closed," came the curt reply.

"Not for me it isn't!" Charlotte flared back at him. "You cannot control me. I'm a grown woman now. I will not be told who I can and cannot see. I have always done everything you've asked of me, and more. Have I ever caused you trouble or heartache?"

Her father stared at her stonily. "That is not the point."

"Yes, it is," she cried out in frustration. "The point is that you do not trust my judgement, despite the fact that I have been level-headed and obedient my entire life."

"Athos is an experienced man of the world," replied her father in a weary voice. "He has probably bedded dozens of women in his time. You are young, and you have no concept of how easily you could be manipulated by such a man. His uniform, his looks, and his words capture your imagination, because he is so different from your everyday existence. But what does he have to offer you? Assuming, that is, that you are more than this week's passing fancy?"

Charlotte gave him an icy look. "I am not stupid, Papa. Athos is not a womanizer, no matter what you may think. I am sure of it. In fact, it was he who insisted that we not become too—intimate."

Bertrand scoffed. "He did not seem as if he was discouraging you when we walked into his quarters. However, even if he was an honest man, the hard fact is that musketeers die frequently, and they die young, Charlotte. What would happen to you then? The King does not indefinitely support the widows of his men. You need stability, and a man who can provide for you. Michel may not fit the picture of your foolishly romantic imagination, but he is hardworking, and he will provide for you. I have made my decision, and the marriage contract will be signed by the end of the week."

Reliving that conversation now, Charlotte felt as if she was suffocating. Something about the inky darkness of the room was terrifying to her. She could not possibly imagine why, as she had never been afraid of the dark, even as a small child. Now, however, her nerves were on edge. She lit the candle she had smuggled up to her chamber earlier, realizing that her father would be furious if he knew she was burning it merely for the comfort of the light.

Leaning against the headboard and hugging her knees, she closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, trying to remember the warmth and security she had felt earlier that day when she had awoken to find herself secure in Athos' arms. The contentment she had experienced when she had opened her eyes to see him smiling at her had been indescribable.

_How could I marry Michel after having loved a man like Athos_? For Charlotte was coming to realize that in the short time she had spent with the musketeer, he had captured her heart. The thought of never being with him again was unbearable—as was the thought of having to spend the rest of her life with Michel.

Finally giving up on the idea of sleep, she kneeled at the foot of her bed and opened up the small chest. Gently folding the baptismal gown and moving it to the side, she picked up the black velvet bag, now weightless without her mother's sapphires. The finality of having lost the last tangible link to her mother hit her, and she carefully placed it back in the chest and closed the lid, a feeling of emptiness flooding her body.

Restless, she moved over to the window and peered out. Foot traffic along the street had thinned as the hour had become late. Denise and Madeleine were already asleep, curled up on the couch in the sitting room, and her father had long since retired. Michel had been out for several hours, so all was quiet. She looked down the street and visualized the route she would need to take to get to the garrison. An overwhelming longing came upon her, and she was tempted to walk out the door and never look back.

A man moving slowly down the street came into her field of vision. He walked along somewhat aimlessly, a hat pulled low over his face. She frowned, seeing something familiar in the way he carried himself, despite the slight unsteadiness that bespoke a long night of drinking. When he stopped in front of the apothecary and glanced up for just an instant, she caught her breath. _Athos._

Seizing the candle, she made her way down the stairs as quickly as possible, trying to avoid the creaky boards. Reaching the comparative safety of the stone floor in the shop, she flew across the room and wrenched the door open just as he had begun to walk away.

"Athos!" she called, her voice breaking. He halted and looked back, his eyes confused before he realized that she was indeed in front of him. In an instant, he crossed the yards separating them and took her in his arms, stepping into the relative warmth of the apothecary. He held her tightly, muttering somewhat incoherently in her ear as he wound a hand through her hair, which flowed loose around her shoulders.

Drawing back and grasping the lapels of his leather doublet, she gave him a teasing smile and said lightly, "I suspect that you are very drunk." He gazed down at her affectionately, eyes slightly unfocused. "And I know that you are very beautiful." His mouth sought hers, and the kiss he gave her was urgent and passionate. Every muscle in his body seemed tightly coiled, and when he finally released her, he leaned his forehead against hers and said firmly, "It will not happen. I give you my word that you will not be forced to marry Michel."

Putting his hat on the table, he pulled out a silver chain from underneath his shirt and took it off, holding it in his palm. His fingers ran over a delicate signet ring suspended on the chain.

"This ring is a sign of my commitment to you," he said quietly, taking her hand. "It was my mother's, and carries the seal of our family. There are two symbols on it that have been imprinted on my mind since I was a boy—the castle, which represents home and security—and the falcon, which represents someone who doggedly pursues a goal and does not rest until it is achieved. Likewise, I will not rest until I have made sure your future is secure—and that it is with me, if you so desire."

Her heart full, she stood mutely as he slipped the chain over her neck. "You remember the inn where we had dinner—the Spotted Calf?"

As she nodded, he took her hands. "Listen carefully. If there is a crisis and you need a means of escape, go to the inn and ask for Annette, the barmaid who served us that night. She will shelter you and make arrangements for you to be transported out of Paris to a chateau in the country. When you arrive, all you need to do is show the staff the ring and tell them that Olivier entrusts you to their keeping."

"Olivier?" she echoed, looking at him with curiosity.

"My name in another life," he murmured softly, looking at her with intensity in his magnetic blue eyes. "If only I had met you first," he whispered, then gathered her to him once again, holding her close and inhaling the scent of her hair.

After several minutes, he drew back, then said with regret, "I must go. We cannot risk being discovered. Wear that ring close to your heart, and know that I am with you always." Taking her face in his hands, he gave her one last, bittersweet kiss, then picked up his hat and slipped out the door, closing it soundlessly behind him.

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Some time later, Milady and Michel returned, and made their way to Michel's room. As they prepared for bed, Milady produced a small silver vial from the folds of her dress.

"I have something for you," she said, her voice playful.

"Show me later," muttered Michel, beginning to unlace her dress in anticipation of enjoying her body.

Smoothly escaping his grasp, she murmured, "I think you'll be interested to see it now." Uncapping the vial, she showed him the contents. "White arsenic. The poison dreams-or should I say nightmares?—are made of. Completely tasteless and odourless. When mixed into a liquid, it is undetectable."

"It sounds-very effective," responded Michel, his attention riveted on the powder.

"I think the sooner you strike, the better. Emotions are still high after today." She thought for a moment, then spoke carefully, the thrill of anticipation clear in her voice. "Suggest to Gaillard that he request Athos' presence at the apothecary tomorrow afternoon. The purpose of the meeting will be to announce his intentions regarding your betrothal to Charlotte, and to make it clear that Athos is to cease all contact with her, once and for all. I would include Treville in the meeting—all the better to have someone in Athos' camp who can be called upon as a witness later. Mix the arsenic into a drink, then be sure Athos brings it to Gaillard. The key to the whole scheme, however, is that you must slip this vial into Athos' doublet. When it is found on him, the evidence will be damning."

Michel looked at her in appreciation. "It is a brilliant plan, and the best part, my love, is that you are as excited as I am to put it in motion."

"Oh, you have no idea how happy I am to help you," murmured Milady, closing the vial and pressing it into his hand. "No idea."

**I'm back in the land of the living...and glad to be back to writing! **

**Next time...Aramis brings Gabriel to the garrison for a visit, and the presence of Athos and Treville is requested at the Apothecary Gaillard for a meeting...**


	37. Chapter 37

**Chapter XXVII...in which Aramis takes Gabriel to visit the garrison, and Charlotte endures an uncomfortable family breakfast.**

**CHAPTER XXXVII**

As morning broke, Aramis arrived promptly at the palace to pick up Gabriel. The Master of Pages, Monsieur Bonnet, was a sour-faced, ancient man, who looked as if had never laughed a day in his life. When Aramis had found him the day before to announce that Gabriel would be spending time with him the next day, Bonnet had pursed his lips in a disapproving fashion. He had then proceeded to produce what seemed to be an incessant list of reasons why the boy could not be spared. Finally losing patience, Aramis had said pointedly, "Perhaps it would be easier for me to go directly to the King? After all, he did appoint me mentor to the boy."

Giving him a grudging look, Bonnet had grunted dismissively, which Aramis had taken as a sign of assent. As he signed the boy out, the old man had appeared to be about to raise another objection, but a threatening look from the musketeer had caused him to hold his tongue. "Have him back by five," the Master of Pages muttered grumpily. "Can't be having boys roaming all over Paris for hours on end—spoils them. Makes them lazy."

_As if you were the very model of industry,_ thought Aramis sardonically, gazing at the layers of dust on the Master's desk. He suspected the man spent most of the day snoozing in his chair. _I wouldn't wish this man on my horse, let alone a group of lively boys._

Ushering Gabriel out the door, he smiled as the boy practically bounced with excitement. "What are we going to do first? Shooting? Swords? Boxing?"

"Something less exciting is the first thing on the agenda, I'm afraid," Aramis replied cheerfully. "But it is a necessity, unfortunately-breakfast. The good news is that we do get to ride my horse to get to the garrison."

The boy's face fell as he glanced over at the large black stallion. "I—thought we were going to walk. Is it really that far?"

"We could walk," replied Aramis lightly, "but we'd have to almost turn around right away to come back—and that would leave no time for the more enjoyable activities."

"I'm not—used to horses," Gabriel whispered, his feet scuffing the ground as he looked uneasily again in the direction of the stallion.

_He's afraid_, thought Aramis, at first surprised, then feeling compassion. _What boy doesn't love horses? He must have had a traumatic experience with one when he was younger._

Squatting down, he looked up into the boy's eyes, and spoke kindly. "Horses can definitely be intimidating when you haven't spent much time around them. But I promise you'll be safe with me. I won't let anything happen to you. My horse adores me." He lowered his voice to a whisper, as he pulled an apple out of his pocket. "Always remember, my boy, the way to a horse's—or a woman's-heart—is through soft words, a gentle touch, and the occasional simple—but effective-gift."

Gabriel gave him an uncertain smile, but nodded. Aramis stood up, and put his hand on the boy's shoulder, guiding him to approach the horse from the front. "Relax, and look confident—horses, and again, women—" he smirked, "like that. If you appear tentative, it makes them uneasy-or annoyed. Trust me, an uneasy, skittish horse is not what you want to have to work with in the heat of battle."

As the page hung back, Aramis laid a hand on his horse's head, and scratched him gently behind the ears, speaking to him softly in Spanish.

"Is that-" began Gabriel hesitantly.

"Yes," Aramis smiled, "It's Spanish. My native tongue, although France is my country now. It's also remarkably effective with horses."

"And—let me guess-women?" inquired the page, a mischievous grin stealing across his face.

Aramis laughed, amused by the boy's quick wit. "Ten minutes with me, and you already show great promise! I like the way you think, Gabriel. Stick with me, and I'll make sure you learn much more than is on Monsieur Bonnet's standard curriculum." He winked, then helped the boy onto the horse in one fluid motion. Watching him intently, he noted that Gabriel tensed up immediately and shut his eyes. Aramis quickly swung up in the saddle behind him, and put one arm around the boy's waist, holding him securely. The page's thin frame relaxed a bit as he felt the solid weight of the musketeer behind him.

"I only have one rule—well, two-for people who ride with me," declared Aramis in a sunny voice as they rode out of the courtyard at a sedate pace. "The first rule is that eyes have to remain open at all times—otherwise you will miss all the sights—including the pretty girls." He raised his hat and grinned at the comely young woman from the vegetable stand around the corner, who dimpled a shy smile in return. "Second rule is that your services will be required as a navigator. The best way to learn the geography of Paris is from the saddle. I'll point out the important spots on the journey there, then you will give me a guided tour on the way back. Are we good?" He looked down at the boy, who had squinted through his mostly closed eyes, holding on to Aramis' arm for dear life.

Gabriel nodded, and Aramis began describing the important landmarks on the street leading to the garrison. "See that church on the corner? That's the Church of St. Mary Magdalene. I spend many an hour there when I've sins to confess or thanks to give. And the small building two down from the church, with the blue door? We may have to stop there on the way back. It's the confectionary. I know you're not fond of horses, but I assume you have no objections to sweets?"

"I love sweets!" Gabriel exclaimed, eyes shining. "We rarely get them at the palace. The Master says they are not good for the digestion of young pages."

"Well," said Aramis thoughtfully. "The Master obviously has not a clue about the real nature of small boys. What he doesn't know won't hurt him. We will definitely pay a visit there later."

They continued on, Gabriel gradually becoming more comfortable in the saddle. The boy was laughing readily, so captivated by Aramis' entertaining and rather colourful travelogue that he forgot altogether that he was riding a massive black stallion, only seeming to remember when they rode into the courtyard at the garrison. The musketeer dismounted, then swung Gabriel off the horse. "We're here already?" the page asked, disappointment clear in his voice.

"I thought this was the main attraction," retorted Aramis teasingly. "Muskets? Swords? Remember?"

The boy smiled back, a bit wistful. "Of course I'm looking forward to that. But just talking to you was—really nice. A few times when my father had to go to Rouen, he took me with him. He used to tell me stories about the places we passed—just like you did. It made it fun, and sort of special."

Aramis put his arm around the boy. "You are special, Gabriel. The King is very, very lucky to have such a young man in—" his voice faltered for a just an instant, "—his son's service. Now, let's go find some breakfast. I'm sure that Serge has something tasty ready. I told him I'd be bringing a good friend."

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Breakfast at the Gaillard residence was a tense affair that morning. Charlotte had busied herself with the cooking, arising before dawn to start making bread. She had slept only perhaps an hour after Athos had left, and had finally decided to get up and make herself useful, wanting to set out an impressive spread for her visiting relatives. Denise was her favourite cousin, and she doted on eight-year-old Madeleine, who was an imaginative, sunny child.

Charlotte set a miniature loaf of bread in front of Madeleine. She had formed it in the rough shape of a bunny, and eyed the long ears critically as she put it on the table, dubious as to how recognizable the animal was. The little girl clapped her hands, and leaped up to hug Charlotte. "Thank you, Charlotte! It's so cute!"

She smiled and kissed Madeleine's head, thankful to have her warm presence at the table. Denise's kindness and Madeleine's energy served as a stark contrast to the glowering Michel and the still obviously angry Bertrand. Passing by her cousin, Charlotte squeezed her shoulder, giving her a fond look.

Denise was a widow, her husband having died four years ago, and Madeleine was her only child. They lived with her mother, who was Bertrand's sister, in a small village outside Paris. Denise was a talented seamstress, and made a good living even in their quiet area. She and her mother supplemented their income by raising chickens and selling eggs. Madeleine delighted in roaming around their small property, which had a spring-fed creek running through it. The little girl had a gift for caring for animals, and was the proud caretaker of a small menagerie of creatures ranging from a turtle to a tame deer. Her favourite pet was a rabbit named Starlight, who followed her around like a dog and slept in her bed at night.

Bouncing back into her chair, Madeleine began to tell a long story that involved her taking Starlight to church for Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. The rabbit had apparently jumped off the pew, and then proceeded to hop up the aisle while the little girl was distracted. Nosing around the church, Starlight had finally crawled into the small crèche set up in front of the altar, promptly falling asleep, much to the amusement of the priest and the congregation.

The little girl looked up to see Michel rolling his eyes in boredom and Charlotte staring down at her plate, pushing her food around aimlessly with her fork. _She looks sad_, thought Madeleine._ Maybe I should talk about something that will make her happy._

"Charlotte, who was that man I saw you kissing last night?" she asked innocently. "He looked ever so nice, even though you told him he was very drunk."

The kitchen became completely silent. "Do tell, Charlotte," said Michel coldly. "We would all like to hear the details."

Charlotte, completely nonplussed, was lost for words. Smirking at her discomfort, Michel turned to the little girl, who sensed immediately that she had said something wrong. "What did the man look like, Madeleine?" he inquired, attempting to make his voice friendly.

"Leave her be, Michel." Charlotte spoke up firmly, and looked her father in the eye. "Yes, it was Athos. He came by for a moment to assure me of his intentions."

Ignoring her, Bertrand glanced at Michel. "May I have a word with you, Michel? Downstairs, please." The two men got up and descended the stairs to the first floor, closing the door behind them.

Madeleine's lip began to tremble as her eyes filled with tears. "I'm sorry, Charlotte. I didn't mean to-"

"I know you didn't, my love," said Charlotte kindly, hugging the little girl. "You must have been quiet as a mouse! I had no idea you were even there."

"I was sitting on the top of the stairs," whispered Madeleine. "I woke up and was thirsty, then saw a candle burning in the shop. I wanted to see who was down there. I didn't mean to spy on you, or do something wrong."

"You did nothing wrong, darling. Athos is a very special friend of mine, and I was glad to see him. Your uncle is just grumpy this morning. Why don't you run to the sitting room and start on the book I left out for you? I'll be along in a moment, and we'll read together."

The little girl smiled at her. "I will—but don't take too long." She skipped out of the kitchen, her sadness already having lifted.

"I wish it were so simple for me to forget my troubles," Charlotte murmured, her voice weary.

"Tell me all about it," said Denise, her hand reaching for Charlotte's. "Perhaps there is something I can do to help."

Charlotte laughed bitterly. "Unless you can make Michel vanish and convince my father that the impression he has of Athos as a drunk womanizer is miles from the truth, I doubt it."

"Try me," said her cousin comfortingly. "I'm a good listener." And so Charlotte began to tell the story of how she had come to meet Athos, becoming more and more uneasy as Michel and her father remained in conference downstairs.

**Next time...Athos and Treville receive a summons to appear at the Apothecary Gaillard.**


	38. Chapter 38

**Chapter XXXVIII...in which the forces of darkness begin their campaign in earnest.**

**CHAPTER XXXVIII**

"This madness has to end now," growled Bertrand, pounding his fist on the table. "Now this man has the gall to come to my house, drunk, and pursue my daughter. For all I know, he laid Charlotte out on the herb-grinding table and ravished her, likely delighting in the thought oof me sleeping just yards away."

"I doubt it went that far," murmured Michel soothingly. "But perhaps it might be a good idea to have a formal meeting with Athos and his Captain. It would serve as a cease-and-desist notice, and would also let him know that the betrothal is going forward. His commanding officer would function as a witness. If Athos continues to be a nuisance, Treville will be forced to discipline him."

Bertrand gave his apprentice a grateful look. "Thank God for your common sense, Michel. I don't know what I would do without you."

"Well, that's something you won't have to worry about," replied Michel with a smile. "I don't plan on going anywhere."

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Aramis sat at the table with a mug of coffee, smiling as Gabriel wolfed down an enormous plate of Serge's pancakes, then looked longingly at a biscuit. "Go ahead," Aramis urged him, amused. "Do they not feed you at the palace?"

"We don't often have a lot of time for breakfast," the boy said slowly, intently buttering his biscuit. "Monsieur Bonnet prefers us to eat quickly."

_I will need to have a talk with the Queen about this Master of Pages_, thought Aramis, liking the man less and less the more he heard about him.

Treville strode in, a worried expression on his face. He held a note in his hand, and was mulling over the lines. "Have you see Athos, by chance?"

"I believe he's at the stables," replied Aramis carefully, sensing the uneasiness in Treville's manner. "Is everything alright?"

"He has been summoned to the Apothecary Gaillard, and my presence has been requested as well, as his commanding officer. Apparently he showed up there last night drunk, and spent time with Charlotte unchaperoned. Her father is furious."

"Well, at least you're having a variation in your routine," observed Aramis brightly. "Usually I am the subject of such letters. I would venture to guess it's a first for Athos."

"Your assumption is correct," answered Treville with a sigh. "This is a meeting I am not looking forward to."

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Athos was currying his horse, softly talking to the animal as he ran the brush over him. Normally the grooms took care of such tasks, but when Athos was troubled, he often preferred to do it himself. Spending time in the quiet of the stable, with only his horse for company, seemed to soothe his mind, and allow him time to work out whatever was bothering him.

Treville hated to be the bearer of bad news, but knew it could not be avoided.

"You're keeping busy, I see," he observed, leaning over the stall.

"Trying to," responded Athos, his voice dull and weary.

Deciding that the best approach was probably the direct one, Treville pulled out the note. "Athos, I've received a message from Bertrand Gaillard. He is accusing you of harassing his daughter last night."

Athos halted, leaning his head against the horse for an instant, then turning to the Captain. "I would hardly term it harassment," he said bitterly. "She was understandably upset at having been informed by her father that she he intends for her to marry a man that she finds repellent."

"Nevertheless, he has requested me, as your commanding officer, to produce you for a meeting at his shop in two hours. He apparently wishes to order you to cease all contact with his daughter, and wants me to serve as a witness."

"Captain, this is wrong—you know it is!" he burst out, his voice trembling with anger. "I will not abandon Charlotte to a life of misery with the man her father has chosen. Michel is abusive and mean-spirited, and does not love her in the least. She deserves so much more…" He stopped, his eyes revealing the depth of his despair.

"Well, then let's reason with him," responded Treville practically. "Surely he will deign to listen to what you have to say."

"Perhaps," Athos murmured, turning back to his horse, "but I am not hopeful."

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Promptly at two o'clock, Athos and Treville knocked on the door of the shop, which was shuttered for the long weekend. It was unlocked by a sullen Michel, who ushered them in, then directed them to Bertrand's office.

The apothecary was seated at his desk, and looked up sharply as they entered. "Captain Treville, Monsieur Athos. Thank you for coming. I was not sure you would."

"I am not the sort of man who ignores a request from the father of the woman I adore," responded Athos in his most comte-like tone, only belatedly realizing that this was the first time he had actually declared his feelings for Charlotte.

Michel and Bertrand exchanged looks. "Why don't I get us all a brandy?" suggested Michel. "I believe there is some in the shop. Please, take off your doublets and weapons, and be comfortable."

Athos shot Treville a look of frustration, and appeared close to losing his patience. Placing his hand firmly on his man's shoulder, the Captain said in a calm voice, "Thank you. That would be much appreciated." He took off his weapons belt and doublet, and Athos reluctantly followed suit, laying them on a table near the door.

"Why don't we dispense with the preliminaries?" suggested Athos coolly, turning to face Bertrand. "I understand you have something to say to me?"

"The preliminaries are what distinguish gentlemen from men who lack honour," answered Bertrand, his tone patronizing. "Michel, please do get us all a drink."

The apprentice left the office and went directly to the counter in the shop, easily finding the bottle of Bertrand's favourite brandy. He then picked up the blue snifter that Bertrand habitually used, and placed it on the counter. Fishing the small silver vial out of his pocket, he poured out the amount of white arsenic that Milady had estimated would be easily lethal, then covered it with brandy and mixed it carefully.

He filled three other snifters, each a different colour, then dropped two glasses purposely on the floor, causing a loud crash. "I need some help!" he called.

"I'll go, murmured Athos, nodding to Treville. Michel glanced up apologetically as the musketeer approached the counter. "Sorry, I'm just a bit clumsy this morning." Eyeing the dark circles around Athos' eyes, he was tempted to goad him, but managed to stop himself just in time. Putting the snifters on a small tray, he handed it to Athos. "The blue glass is Monsieur Bertrand's. The rest are up for grabs."

Giving Michel a curt nod, Athos deftly took hold of the tray as the apprentice stooped behind the counter. Smirking to himself, he picked up the shards of glass and deposited them neatly into the trash. Finishing the job, he wiped his hands and thought gleefully of the scene that would soon unfold. _Time to watch the fireworks._

"What was that white powder you put in Uncle Bertrand's glass? Was it a special medicine?" The small voice piping up from behind him nearly caused Michel to jump out of his skin. He turned slowly to see Madeleine looking at him, her innocent face full of curiosity.

Seizing her by the arm so fiercely that she cried out in pain, he put his face within inches of hers, and snarled, "You little bitch! What do you mean sneaking up on me like that?"

"I—I—" Madeleine faltered, her eyes filled with terror.

"You forget what you saw, you hear?" When she just stared at him, frozen with fear, he shook her violently. "Forget it! Or your mother will die a horrible death—and I'll make you watch. Then I'll kill your grandmother—and you'll watch that too. But you—I'll save you for last. And you will suffer so much that you will wish I'd taken care of you first. Do you understand me?"

She nodded, a single tear rolling down her cheek. "Get out of here," he growled, shoving her towards the stairs. "And remember what I told you—because I have a very bad temper." Backing up swiftly, she turned and broke for the stairs, rushing up them as if the devil himself was behind her. Reaching the top, she fled into the sitting room, and burrowed into the pile of cosy quilts on the couch, seeking to insulate herself from the fright she had just experienced.

In the kitchen, Charlotte paced nervously, then stopped, her face determined. "In five minutes, I'm going down there," she said resolutely to her cousin. "I know Papa expressly forbade it, but I will not be treated like a horse for sale, completely excluded from any negotiations or discussions."

"Just promise me you won't let them get you upset," begged Denise. "Please. For your own future, as well as that of Athos. If you end up having to marry Michel, you cannot have him despise you from the outset-or have him hold a grudge against Athos that could lead to violence."

"It's too late for that," responded Charlotte, her voice despairing. "Michel already despises me...and there is no doubt that he would kill Athos if he had the chance."

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Athos entered the office with the tray and set it on the desk, handing Bertrand his snifter first, then distributing the rest, the last glass going to Michel.

"To Charlotte," proposed Michel, his tone cordial. "May we all have her best interests at heart. I know I do," he added in an undertone, giving the musketeer a challenging look.

They all drank, Bertrand finishing his brandy in one go, clearly feeling the need to fortify himself for the task ahead. He reached for a glass of water, giving Michel a rueful look. "I must be getting old. That burned more than usual going down." He drank half the glass, then set it on the desk.

"I have called you here, Monsieur Athos, in the company of your commanding officer, to make clear to you my intentions regarding my daughter's future. I was disturbed to find out that you, in a state of intoxication, had trespassed upon my property last night in an attempt to see her."

"To be fair," responded Athos in his impassive voice, "Charlotte invited me in-and I was not so drunk that I do not remember every second of our encounter. I can assure you that no impropriety took place."

Bertrand held up his hand. "I do not wish to hear the lurid details. I do, however, wish to declare that you are not to have any interaction with my daughter going forward," he coughed, gripping his hand against his chest, "whether in person or through an intermediary. She is to be betrothed to my apprentice Michel, and the contract is to be signed imminently."

"Sir, may I ask if Charlotte has been allowed to express her wishes?" inquired Athos, his eyes intent on the apothecary.

Shifting in his chair and beginning to sweat, Bertrand glared at the musketeer. "Her desires are not pertinent to this conversation. She is young and foolish, and cannot-" He suddenly doubled over and began retching, gasping for air in between the cycles of vomiting.

"Something-is wrong," he choked, the wave of nausea finally passing.

"Is it your heart?" asked Michel solicitously, hastening to his side.

Grimacing, Bertrand shook his head. "The pain —it's different. I've never—" he gasped. "Get Charlotte, please…"

Athos glanced at Treville, then quickly left the room, meeting Charlotte at the bottom of the stairs. She instantly saw that his eyes were troubled, and blurted out, "What's wrong? What's happened?"

"Your father—he's taken ill. He's asking for you."

Turning pale, Charlotte instinctively reached for his hand, seeking to draw reassurance from his presence.

"He needs you. Be strong," Athos murmured, planting a gentle kiss on the top of her head, then leading her into the office, where Bertrand, now on the floor, was writhing in agony.

"Papa!" Charlotte cried out, rushing to his side and dropping to her knees. "What's wrong? What happened?" She looked at Treville, fear clearly visible on her face.

"We were discussing your future, and he and Athos began to argue-" the Captain stopped and looked at Athos uneasily.

"This is your fault!" Michel shouted, glaring at the musketeer.

"Shut up!" Charlotte snapped at him. "You are not helping the situation!"

"Charlotte," Bertrand croaked, his voice failing. "Remember what we talked about—I only want for you to be safe, and to be happy. Michel can give you a future."

"Don't worry, Papa," she whispered, holding his hand securely in hers. "You are going to be fine. When you are better, we will talk, and work everything out. No decisions need to be made now. Save your strength."

Suddenly, the apothecary's eyes rolled back, and he began to seize. Charlotte quickly laid him on his back, pushing Michel out of the way. Treville and Athos moved in, attempting to hold Bertrand down. In the ensuing chaos, Michel broke away from the group for just an instant. However, that moment was more than enough time to slip the vial of arsenic into one of the breast pockets on Athos' doublet. Confident that he had not been observed, the apprentice then quickly retraced his steps, and stood behind Treville and Athos.

Charlotte became increasingly panicked as Bertrand's breathing became irregular. "Breathe, Papa! Breathe!" she cried out, shaking him fiercely. "You have to breathe! Don't die on me!" The jerking of her father's limbs gradually slowed, his face turning blue. After one last weak breath, he finally lay still. Treville felt for a pulse, shaking his head when he found none. Collapsing into Athos' arms, Charlotte began to sob. He rocked her gently, wiping the tears from her face as he murmured to her in his soothing voice.

"I'm here—I've got you. You will never be alone, I promise—not as long as I'm alive."

Hearing his words, Michel felt a thrill of satisfaction surge through his body. _Don't worry_, he thought scornfully. _You'll be able to keep your promise—because you won't have much longer to live. You'll be arrested in a matter of hours, and I imagine you'll swing from a noose not too long after that..._

**Next time...more drama...**


	39. Chapter 39

**Chapter XXIX...in which Aramis and Gabriel bond, and Michel arranges for the arrest of Athos...**

**CHAPTER XXIX**

Athos eventually led Charlotte upstairs, having sent Treville up first to inform Denise of what had happened. As they passed the Captain at the top of the landing, he placed a comforting hand on his lieutenant's shoulder. "I'll take care of the arrangements for the body," he said in a low voice.

"Where the hell is Michel?" hissed Athos. "Mr. Responsibility seems to have vanished into thin air."

Treville shrugged, his blue-grey eyes steely. "Who cares? It's much easier with him out of the way."

Charlotte, numb with grief, allowed Athos to guide her into her room, where he picked her up and settled her gently on the bed. Sliding onto the quilt next to her, he stretched out his long legs, then drew her head to rest on his shoulder, wrapping an arm securely around her. She clung to him tightly. "Please don't leave," she whispered as dusk began to settle upon the street. "I couldn't possibly bear to be without you tonight."

"I'm not going anywhere" he murmured, his voice as deep and reassuring as ever. "I made a promise to you, and I am a man of my word."

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Aramis guided his horse through the east gate of the palace, tipping his hat to the musketeers on duty. Gabriel had nodded off in the saddle, exhausted after a long day of adventure at the garrison. Reining in his mount in front of the Dauphin's quarters, the musketeer slid out of the saddle, holding on to the boy and carefully lifting him off the horse. Gabriel stumbled, a bit unsteady on his feet, and Aramis caught him. "Steady, now," he said softly. "I think you have had a long day, and the sugar from the confectionary stop has made you sleepy."

Blinking up at him, the page leaned into Aramis, hugging him tightly. "Thank you," he whispered, his small voice full of gratitude. "This was one of the best days of my life."

The musketeer felt a lump form in his throat, and he ruffled the boy's hair affectionately. "I never had a younger brother...but if I had been lucky enough to have had one, I hope he would have been like you. You handled that sword very well today, despite the fact that it was twice as big as you. And even though you are not fond of horses, you were able to conquer your misgivings and ride with confidence. I like that in a boy. Perhaps you can be my adopted little brother?" He smiled down at the eagerness in Gabriel's face.

"I would like that…very much," stammered the boy, overwhelmed with emotion.

"Well then, little brother, how about I approach the Master of Pages about setting up scheduled mentoring sessions? It's been sanctioned by the King, so how can he object? Until next time, then."

Gabriel smiled shyly, then ran up the stairs, pausing only to wave goodbye to Aramis.

_God works in mysterious ways_, thought Aramis, shaking his head in wonder. _I seized the chance to mentor the boy in order to be near my son, but his presence eases a bit the pain of not being able to act as a father to my own child. Hopefully I will be able to do some good for Gabriel, for he is fatherless and lonely—and has the right ingredients to be a great man with the proper guidance._

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As dusk deepened into evening, Charlotte finally was able to rest. Denise and Athos had coaxed her to drink an elixir that contained a sedative, hoping that sleep would calm her troubled mind a bit. Athos sighed and shifted her body slightly, trying to keep her comfortable. Her hand came to rest on his chest, and she began to breathe evenly. He closed his fingers around hers, shocked at how cold her hand was. She began to murmur in her sleep, her words at first unintelligible, then becoming more clear.

"Only gift-the shoes. I don't want to die-not yet. I'm not ready." Her hand gripped his tightly, and her voice rose in panic. "Athos! He's got a knife!" A sob choked in her throat. "I'm bleeding! Dear Lord, I want to live!" she moaned. "I want more time-to finally have happiness." Tossing, she half sat up, then yielded to Athos' gentle touch, laying back against his shoulder, tears running down her face in response to the dream that was still ongoing. "Hush, it's all over, Charlotte," he murmured tenderly, stroking her hair as she clutched his shirt, twisting the fabric around her fingers in her confusion.

Suddenly, her eyes opened, and she cried out in terror, beginning to tremble. "The dark! I can't stand it-I have to have light! I can't breathe-I'm suffocating!" Hammering his chest with her fists, she began to struggle with him, becoming more agitated by the second.

Denise rushed in, concern evident on her face.

"A candle! Quickly!" pleaded Athos, trying to calm Charlotte as she continued to resist his attempts to quiet her hysteria. When her cousin returned a moment later with a candle, he managed to wrap his arms around Charlotte, desperately trying to use his touch to break through the agonizing nightmare that was so apparent in her usually calm brown eyes.

"Charlotte-look at me." His direct blue gaze was intent on her face, and his low voice was at its most mesmerizing pitch. "It's Athos. You are safe. No one will hurt you. I'm with you, and here's Denise with a candle. The room is filling with light—look around you."

Her eyes wild, she glanced at him, then at her cousin. A flicker of recognition crossed her face, and she relaxed slightly when she saw the candle flame.

Charlotte's dress was drenched with sweat, and she began to shiver, the emotional toll of her dream becoming apparent. Denise withdrew with a nod from Athos, softly closing the door behind her.

"What is wrong with me?" she choked, clinging to Athos as if she was drowning. "I have never been weak or nervous in my life. This is ridiculous."

"You've been through several traumatic events in a very short time," murmured Athos gently. "Your mind is just trying to process it all. I know you didn't recall very much from the ball initially, but I am guessing some memories surfaced just now?"

She nodded slowly. "The terror-it was just overwhelming. I remember thinking I'd—" she swallowed and avoided his eyes, "Never see you again. It was so dark, and then I was bleeding."

His fingers skimmed along her cheek, and he turned her head to face him. "I was terrified too. I was so afraid I'd lose you—just as we had begun—" he paused, steadying his voice "-to care for each other. Because I do care for you, Charlotte—I had no idea how much until that night."

Bringing her hand to his lips, he kissed it softly, emotion filling his next words. "You have brought my heart back to life, just when I thought I would never love again. The pain I went through when my wife betrayed me—it was almost unbearable."

Her eyes softening, she gazed at him, his words burning into her brain. "You don't have to bear anything alone—not anymore." Settling against him with a sigh, she finally felt the tension in her body begin to dissipate.

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Milady knocked quietly on the door to the storeroom, and was promptly granted entrance by Michel. "Well?" she inquired coyly, her eyes glittering expectantly.

"It's done." Michel grinned, and she threw her arms around him in delight. "Tell me all about it. Is the arsenic safely in Athos' jacket?"

He gave her an injured look. "You doubt my skill at treachery?"

"I really shouldn't-you **have** had an excellent teacher," she observed, her voice as alluring as ever. "Where are the two of them now? Have the police been notified?"

"I just sent for the inspector," he said calmly. "But we should have a good hour before he arrives. Perhaps one of us might try to talk to them first ourselves-see what we can get out of them with a little bit of coaxing, you know." He winked at her, and a slow smile spread across her face as she wrapped her arms around him, sighing in satisfaction.

"I do like the way you think. Where are the two of them?"

"I believe the lovebirds are asleep upstairs…and as luck would have it, Charlotte's cousin and her little brat went with Treville to get something to eat. He apparently felt they needed a break from the aura of tragedy in the house."

"Then what are we waiting for?" breathed Milady, anticipating with relish the look on Athos' face when her role in the scheme was revealed.

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Athos awoke to find his head swimming in pain. He vaguely realized that he was immobile, and his brain tried to grasp exactly why that was the case. A gag was tied tightly across his mouth, and felt as if it was rubbing his skin raw. He worked out that he was seated, and his hands were tied behind him. Trying to shift his feet, he found he could not, and guessed that they were fastened securely to the legs of the chair. He was surrounded by a darkness that was so complete that he could see nothing, not even after allowing his eyes more than adequate time to adjust to the lack of light.

As he gave up trying to see, his focused his senses on listening instead. He thought he detected the sound of another human breathing in the room, but could not be sure. The breathing pattern was uneven, and irregular—and intermittently occasionally broken by a choking noise that seemed to come from deep within the throat. It was as if the other person in the room was confronting their worst nightmare. Then it dawned on him, the icy hand of fear squeezing his heart. _Charlotte._

He tilted his head from side to side, trying to get a bearing on where she was. The sound seemed to be coming from his left. He attempted to scoot his chair in that general direction, but only met with frustration. The seat he was in seemed to be made of a heavy metal, and was basically impossible to budge. A string of rather colourful curses ran through his mind, but died away in shock when the door swung open to admit Milady, holding a lantern.

Her eyes travelled over Athos briefly, then widened in interest, fixed on something behind him. Athos followed her gaze, and his heart fell when he saw Charlotte tied to a chair similar to his own. Her dress was torn, and she appeared slightly dazed, her mouth slack against the gag. A large purple bruise spread across her forehead.

"So, this is the famous Charlotte." Milady sauntered over to Athos, stopping just for an instant to caress his neck with her slender fingers. Although his instinct was to recoil, he willed himself to remain impassive at her touch. "She's not at all as I imagined." Circling around to stand in front of him, she gazed at him coolly with her mocking green eyes. "It seems as though you've lowered your standards since the old days, Athos."

Silk dress rustling, she then approached Charlotte, reaching out to grasp her firmly by the chin, regarding her with a critical eye. "She's awfully…common looking, wouldn't you say? Red hair, rather pedestrian brown eyes, a dusting of—**ugh**-freckles, and her hands—" her tone became contemptuous as she picked up one of Charlotte's hands, regarding it with distaste. "Obviously used to doing manual labour.** Definitely** not the hands of a lady." She removed her hands from Charlotte, and stood back to gaze at her thoughtfully

"And how do you find my husband?" she inquired, eyes narrowing as she looked at the woman in front of her. "I am assuming you are bright enough to guess my identity. When we were coupled in wedded bliss, Athos and I were actually deliriously happy for quite some time. What was it you told me the first night we made love, darling? That I set your body on fire with my touch?" Tossing a quick glance at Athos to look for a reaction, but being disappointed, she then focused her attention completely on Charlotte, and pulled her gag off. "Has he told you the same?"

Charlotte stared at her, trying to keep her face neutral, but despite her best attempts, her eyes slid over involuntarily to Athos.

Milady smirked. "So sweet…you're looking to him for reassurance, like a lost puppy. The saddest part is, you probably actually believe that he loves you."

Sidling back over to Athos, she removed his gag. "You **know** you've never forgotten me, or the joy we took in each other's body."

Staring at her with scornful indifference, he muttered, "That was in another lifetime. I would just as soon make love to a scorpion now."

"Ignoring the truth doesn't make it go away," she snapped, her voice low and dangerous. "You would like to believe that you have found true love with an unspoiled, chaste maiden who will wipe away your sins. But you **know** that whatever I am, you love **me**, and you always will. That is, with the limited time you have left here on earth. Even now, I could make your body respond to me within seconds with the right touch."

A throaty, derisive laugh came from behind her. "Just listen to yourself! You are the most tiresome, ridiculous, self-centred woman ever."

Milady whirled as Charlotte spoke up, her eyes blazing. "You want to believe that no man can ever get over you—that they will be a slave to their desire for you until the day they die. Well, I have news for you. Athos **has** gotten over you. Does some small part of him still love you? Yes, because he is a good man, and because he cherishes the happy times that the two of you shared before you revealed your true nature. But I am sorry to inform you that you have lost any power you had left over his heart-because with me, he has the chance to experience something he never did with you—the peace of knowing that he is **unconditionally** loved."

For an instant, Milady was at a loss for words, and Athos stared at her, a faint smile spreading across his face. He could not recall ever having seen any woman stand up to his wife, let alone leave her momentarily speechless.

"You're very feisty for someone who is on the cusp of sharing your beloved's date with the noose," Milady replied, her eyes growing cold as she picked up the lantern and headed for the door. "The police inspector will be here any moment, so you may want to take some time to reconsider your attitude. Athos already confessed to Michel earlier when we confronted him with the evidence."

"I did no such thing!" roared Athos. "What evidence? There is none!"

"Oh, you are so wrong, my love. You see, the honest, reliable apprentice Michel was immediately suspicious of the manner of his beloved master's death, and made haste to search the doublet you left downstairs. It is fortunate he is so clever and thorough, because what did he find in your pocket?" Her voice lowered to a whisper as her pupils dilated in a predatory surge of confidence. "A large vial of white arsenic."

Athos' face froze with shock, as the realization that he had been well and truly framed hit him.

A thin smile of satisfaction flitted across Milady's face, and her voice became pitying. "Shall I call a priest now to hear your last confession, or would you like to wait? Either way, your fate is sealed. The evidence will leave little room for doubt, especially with the bad blood between you and Bertrand Gaillard of late."

She gave Charlotte one last disparaging look."As for you, little herb girl, Michel is of a mind to give you one last chance to marry him, although I have no idea why. I'd advise you to think very carefully before you turn him down—because if you do, we will make **very** sure that you share the blame for your dear father's death. I'll be back for your answer in a few minutes."

"Don't bother," said Charlotte, her voice resolute. "I'd rather die by the side of the man I love than spend one minute with Michel."

As footsteps were heard outside the storeroom, signalling the approach of the police inspector, Milady smirked. "Well, it appears as if your wish is about to become a reality. Goodbye for now, but I will **so** enjoy seeing you both swing from the end of a rope. Look for me in the first row. I'll be the one toasting your death with the most expensive bottle of champagne I can find."

**Next time...the disturbing messages to Anne resume, and Aramis and Treville search the Chatelet for Athos and Charlotte.**


	40. Chapter 40

**CHAPTER XL**

Anne was readying for bed, and had changed into her blue silk dressing gown. The baby was cooing in his bassinette, and she picked him up with a smile, cradling in him in her arms and singing the Spanish lullaby that Aramis had taught her on New Year's Eve. It was one she had never heard before that night, but the melody was lilting and beautiful. She had been mesmerized by the sight of Aramis singing to their son, and he had told her that the song was a derivation of a sixth-century hymn praising the infant Jesus. As she sang, little Louis stared at her, captivated by her sweet voice.

She knew that technically her child had been conceived in sin, but looking down at his innocent, wondering eyes, she was secure in the knowledge that he had been born out of love. She had long since prayed for mercy, trusting that God would forgive her and Aramis for the very human frailty they had shown in the middle of a siege that could have easily resulted in the death of both of them. She was well aware that Aramis felt deeply the sting of his sin, and believed in some way that his punishment was to be forced to watch his child from afar.

Setting the baby down on her bed, she covered him with a blanket as he rubbed his eyes sleepily, then dozed off. She ran a finger over his strong, confident jaw, which reminded her so much of his father, and kissed his downy forehead. Leaning back against the pillows, she reached for her prayer book. Although she had been reluctant to touch it several days ago, the unnerving discovery of the red-inked passages in her Bible had caused her to turn back to it again as a source of solace.

Thumbing through the well-worn pages, she settled on a prayer, reading silently at first, then out loud when she got to her favourite part.

_"Keep me reasonably sweet. I do not want to be a saint-some of them are so hard to live with-but a sour person is one of the crowning works of the devil. Give me the ability to see good things in unexpected places and talents in unexpected people. And give me, Lord, the grace to tell them so. Amen."_

As she reached back over to put the book on her bedside table, it fell, and a slip of paper fluttered out. Anne's heart began hammering in her chest, and she felt a rise of panic. Breathing deeply, she picked up the piece of paper, and read it, her hands shaking. _Mark my words, a bastard will never sit on the throne of France. Your son will soon pay the ultimate price for your iniquity unless you confess your sin. Once he is dead, you and your lover will join him in hell_. _Repent while you still have the chance_.

Terror overwhelming her, she began to sob uncontrollably, waking up the baby, who began to cry. A knock came on the door, and she heard Constance's soft voice. "Your Majesty, may I come in?"

"Yes," Anne called out in a choked voice. "But just you—no one else," she added hastily. When Constance came in, Anne ordered her to lock the door, which she did immediately. As Anne lifted her baby to her shoulder and attempted to soothe him, she gave Constance a look of despair. "Constance, you are the only one I can talk to. You know the truth about the circumstances of my son's birth." Constance nodded, mystified by the Queen's words. "I will go with that secret to my grave, Your Majesty. You and Aramis are both very dear to me."

Looking at her with a face full of agony, Anne whispered, "Someone else knows—and they are threatening to kill my baby unless I confess. What do I do, Constance?"

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Michel entered the storeroom, leading the way for the police inspector and a detachment of six Red Guards. The inspector, a man named Edouard LeRoux, was a slightly built man with pale, hooded eyes and a neatly trimmed beard. He regarded Athos and Charlotte with a sort of detached curiosity. "So, this is the man in question?" he asked quietly. When Michel nodded, he approached Athos and said in a disparaging voice, "I have seen the evidence, and the truth is plain. It is a long fall from grace for you, Monsieur Athos. You must have been obsessed with this girl to stoop to such evil. When the King hears that the godfather to his son has committed murder, he is unlikely to be impressed."

Athos, not intimidated in the least, lifted his eyes to return the man's gaze. "Or perhaps he will immediately realize the truth—that I have been framed."

Inspector LeRoux sighed, and affected a look of boredom. "I really wish you lot would come up with something new. If I had a sou for every time I have been told by a criminal that he has been framed, I'd be a rich man indeed."

His eyes moved on to Charlotte. "And this is the daughter? May I ask why she is tied up? I had not yet heard any accusations against her."

Michel glanced at Milady, who shook her head slightly. "I had saved this evidence for last as it is—" his voice became hushed and regretful, "—truly shocking, especially given that this woman was dedicated to God upon her birth."

Going over to a desk in the storeroom, he opened the top drawer.

"This is where Mademoiselle Gaillard preferred to sit when she was writing up receipts for deliveries. I always wondered why, in this shop where all actions were transparent, she was so secretive about keeping this drawer locked."

Charlotte spoke up, her voice incredulous. "There is no mystery. It is locked because the cash receipts are stored in there at the end of the day. You know that for a fact. It has been the protocol since the day you were hired."

Michel looked at her, his face full of pity. "And to think that I was besotted with this girl. I desired only to marry her and to serve her father faithfully until the time came for his natural death—and I had prayed that event would be years from now, as—" he sniffed, seemingly overcome by tears, "—he was like a second father to me. But his life was cut short by the evil lurking within this man—" he turned to point an accusing finger at Athos, then continued, lowering his voice to a whisper, "—and his own daughter, who had taken the knowledge gained from her loving father and turned to become one of the devil's own witches."

Pulling out a book from the drawer with a flourish, he displayed the title for all to see. _A Witch's Collection of Potions and Spells for Use in the Service of Evil._

"Could the evidence be any clearer?" he inquired sadly.

"You planted that in my desk!" cried out Charlotte. "I have never seen that book before in my life."

"Even now, she seeks to deceive us!" burst out Milady, who had been silent up until now. She crossed herself fervently. "We shall require a priest to exorcise this place after she is removed."

"Fear not, my gentle lady," announced the inspector theatrically, his voice full of authority. "I shall remove these evildoers from this place without delay." Turning to the Red Guards, he ordered, "Untie them from the chairs and shackle them hand and foot. Be careful, for these two are obviously dangerous characters."

The guards sprang into action, and were rough in their handling of Athos and Charlotte, no doubt savouring the chance to deliver a musketeer and his woman to the indignities awaiting at the Chatelet. They pulled them to their feet and pushed them out of the storeroom. Charlotte, her feet numb from having been immobile for so long, stumbled and fell on her knees. One of the guards sneered and kicked her. "Get up, you whore of a witch! Don't try to play any of your tricks on us."

"Leave her alone!" Athos' fury was instantaneous, and he threw his weight against the guard that had kicked Charlotte. He vaguely realized that this was a foolhardy mission, but had acted instinctively to protect her. Within seconds, the guards had thrown him to the ground and were beating him mercilessly, stopping only when Charlotte crawled into the fray and threw her body over Athos.

"Hey, leave off," one Guard cried out to his comrades, bending over and breathing heavily. "Remember, the Cardinal always gives us the afternoon off after a hangin' or burnin' a witch. No sense givin' these two a quick death. Plus, if we kill them now, we'd be deprivin' ourselves of the double pleasure of witnessing an execution and then havin' an afternoon to spend in the tavern with wine and women."

The others slapped him on the back, agreeing with his logic. "We made 'im suffer a bit, though," commented another guard with satisfaction, eyeing the blood trailing down Athos' face. The musketeer clutched his side, and Charlotte suspected he had broken a rib. "I'll check you out when they get us in the cart," she whispered in his ear, keeping her voice calm and reassuring.

Hauling the two prisoners to their feet, the Red Guards marched them outside and ceremoniously deposited them into the wagon that was used to carry the accused to the Chatelet. It was lined with bars and served as an open-air cage, exposing those inside to the scrutiny and ridicule of all they met along the way.

A curious knot of neighbours, several holding torches, had formed outside the apothecary, no doubt alerted by Michel as to the reason for the arrest. Charlotte quailed as she was subjected to curses from elderly women who had hugged her as a child and had greeted with a smile every time they came into the shop. Children that she had helped to cure with medication she had mixed herself pelted the cart with refuse scrounged out of trash heaps, and began to chant, "Burn the witch! Burn the witch!"

Charlotte stared at the hatred in their faces, and was overwhelmed with fear, as the cart jolted and began to rumble down the street. Athos saw her begin to tremble, and murmured, "Put your head on my shoulder and look only at me." Leaning against his solid body, she gazed up at him, and his blue eyes softened in response.

"What I would give to put my arms around you right now, my love," he said in a husky voice tinged with yearning, glancing ruefully as his chained wrists.

Her heart skipped a beat. "My love?" she echoed.

"Yes, I'm talking to you, Charlotte Gaillard," he said tenderly, the corner of his mouth curving up in a grin. "We will get out of this somehow, I promise. But do not lose faith, because the minute you do, we are lost. Promise me you won't."

"I won't. I know we are innocent," Charlotte answered, her words reflecting a resolution that had been absent a moment ago. "I have faith in God, and I trust you. That's all I need to remember." She kissed his chest, and he felt a thrill at the warmth of her lips through his bloodied shirt. Looking up at him, she said with a trace of an impish smile, "You do realize you can't take it back now?"

"Take back what?" he asked, confused.

"That you love me. You've gone and said it, so now you're stuck with me."

"Ah," said Athos meditatively, reaching for her hand as his shackles clinked. "Is that how it works? There is no escape for me now?"

"So I've been told," replied Charlotte, her tone carefully neutral. "But you have been very forward, Monsieur Athos, and I have something I feel the need to say to you."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Which is?"

Her rich brown eyes looked up at him with a simple honesty that caught his breath. "I love you-and I have since the first day I saw you, bleeding and delirious in the palace."

Athos was overwhelmed by the conviction and ardour in her face, and he felt his eyes involuntarily fill with tears. His attempt at a response was drowned out by the roar of the crowd gathered at the intersection with the main street of that quarter of Paris. The insults and rotten produce began flying fast and thick, and Charlotte hid her face against Athos once again.

Treville, escorting Madeleine and Denise home from a late dinner at an inn several streets away, tensed as he focused on the Red Guards casually following the barred cart, doing nothing to discourage harassment of the accused. "Those men should be shot," he muttered, shaking his head.

Suddenly, Madeleine cried out as a torch illuminated the cart. Her voice was filled with anguish as she clung to her mother. "Mama! Captain! It's Charlotte and her friend Athos! Where are they taking them?" The words were no sooner out of her mouth than Treville had glimpsed Athos and Charlotte, huddled together in the wagon.

He dashed down the street, shouting at the Guards in an attempt to get their attention. One of the men looked back and saw him. He nudged his companion, then urged his horse forward. The Red Guard spoke to the driver of the cart, and the man struck the horses with a whip, causing them to double their pace as they thundered down the street. Realizing he could never catch up, Treville threw up his arms in frustration, cursing himself for ever leaving the apothecary.

Turning around, he set down the street at a dead run, and arrived at the shop in less than a minute, Denise and Madeleine struggling to follow him. He hammered on the door, roaring for Michel to open it. When no reply came, he took his pistol out and shot the lock off the door without hesitation. Kicking the door open, he kept his hand on the hilt of his sword while his eyes searched the main room of the shop. Hearing voices on the second floor, he mounted the stairs, guided by a candle that had been left burning on the counter of the apothecary.

Throwing the door of the kitchen open, he was confronted by the sight of Michel and Milady calmly eating supper. Hauling Michel out of his chair, Treville threw him against the wall. "What the hell have you done now, you miserable, good-for-nothing man? Why are Athos and Charlotte being taken away in a jail cart?" His voice rose until he was shouting, the veins on his neck bulging.

Raising his hands in a gesture of surrender, Michel replied in a serene voice. "Captain, I have merely set the wheels of justice in motion. Athos has confessed to the poisoning of Monsieur Gaillard, and a large quantity of white arsenic was found in his doublet. Charlotte, for her part, has apparently been whiling away her days becoming acquainted with the dark arts. A rather incriminating book of black magic was found in her possession. Both have been taken to the Chatelet to await trial and, inevitably, execution. Any other questions?" He smirked, and Treville responded by hitting the man as hard as he could, knocking him to the floor and shattering his nose, from which began to stream copious amounts of blood.

As Michel wailed in pain, Treville kicked him, then turned to Milady. "If Athos or Charlotte are harmed in any way, I will kill you myself," he growled.

She gave him a sly grin in response, settling back against her chair as she picked up her goblet of wine. "If I were you, Captain, I'd be searching the Chatelet instead of taunting me. You know how the prisoners love to entertain themselves by abusing musketeers and fresh young women." She began to laugh as Treville ran down the stairs, and the sound receded only when he exited the shop, slamming the door behind him.

Denise's face was creased with worry, and her heart fell when Treville confirmed her suspicions. "They are being taken to the Chatelet. Come, let me take you and Madeleine to the garrison. You will be safe there. I will take some of my men, and we will find them." His voice was determined, and the steely look in his eyes gave Denise a slim thread of hope.

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As Treville entered the gates of the garrison with Denise and her daughter, his eyes met the sight of Serge chatting with Aramis in the courtyard. Catching his glance, the two men immediately made their way over to their Captain.

"Serge, this is Denise Montville and her daughter Madeleine. They are under my protection. Please make sure they are fed and given sleeping quarters. A guard is to be posted outside their room at all times."

The old man nodded, his sharp eyes noting that the little girl was trembling, and her mother seemed uneasy and upset. "Come with me. I've just finished serving the men dinner, and was about to eat myself. The kitchen is warm and cosy, and I've a lovely beef stew prepared." Taking Madeleine kindly by the hand, he shepherded them into the kitchen, leaving Aramis and the Captain to talk.

"Trouble?" Aramis' voice was tense, having sensed the fury that Treville was barely keeping under control.

"You could say that," his superior replied bitterly. "Michel has apparently framed Athos for the murder of Charlotte's father. To top it off, he has planted evidence to suggest Charlotte is a witch. They are both on their way to the Chatelet."

"If we hurry, we can cut them off before they get there." Aramis felt for his ammunition pouch. "Where are Porthos and d'Artagnan?"

"As luck would have it, I met them on the road, and sent them to the palace with a message for the King. Surely he will not tolerate his godfather of his son being treated like a petty criminal."

"Depends on his mood," observed Aramis ruefully. "Let's go. We've no time to waste."

**Next time….Athos and Charlotte are introduced to the harsh conditions in the Chatelet, and Anne enlists Gabriel's aid to get an urgent message to Aramis.**

**Thank you for all the lovely reviews-I always love hearing from both new readers and those who have been loyally following for 40 chapters now! Any comments/feedback are always welcome.**


	41. Chapter 41

**Chapter XLI...in which Athos and Charlotte find the accommodations at the Chatelet to be less than ideal, and Anne and Constance come up with a plan to send a message to Aramis.**

**CHAPTER XLI**

Twenty minutes later, Treville and Aramis were at the gate to the Chatelet, having seen no sign of Charlotte and Athos on the way. The night was cold, and a light freezing rain had begun to fall from the sky. The musketeers were deep into a heated argument with the two guards on duty. Lounging in low chairs under a canopy on the other side of the grille, the erstwhile sentries were slovenly and unkempt, and appeared to be in no hurry to grant Treville's request for entrance.

"Don't care who you are," commented one man, gnawing on a turkey leg as he regarded the musketeers calmly. "Titles, names—means nothing to us."

"He's right," agreed his companion, who was munching on a meat pie. He stopped to swig directly out of a large bottle of wine, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and belched loudly. "Now, if you was to have money—" he gave the Captain a significant look, "—that would be a different matter. Lettin' in people after the normal visiting hours puts our jobs at risk. We need to be compensated for that, get my drift? We've got young 'uns to feed."

"Why in hell should a Captain in the King's Musketeers pay to gain access to a jail that is directly under the jurisdiction of his Majesty?" shouted Treville, ready to lose patience completely.

"Dunno," shrugged the first man, chewing his mouthful of turkey thoughtfully. "I just work here. I don't make the rules."

Seeking to forestall a complete explosion on the part of Treville, Aramis hastily dug in his pocket and produced ten sous. "Are we good?" he inquired in a low voice.

The two guards looked at each other, and the man with the turkey leg nodded, pocketing the money. A wide grin split his face as he unlocked the gate. "Enjoy the sights, gentlemen. Pleasure doin' business with you."

Entering the courtyard, Treville headed for the reception building, where he knew all the accused were inprocessed. As he opened the door, the fetid smell of unwashed, decaying bodies caused a wave of nausea to wash over him. Aramis pushed past, holding a handkerchief over his nose. The building was damp, and a bone-chilling cold emanated from the stone walls, which were dotted with patches of mildew. There were several enormous holding cells, each filled to the gills with all sorts of people.

As Treville surveyed the scene, he noted that the inmates, all of whom were shackled, were in varying conditions. What he saw caused him only to feel more apprehensive about the fate of Charlotte and Athos. Some poor souls were clearly deranged, while others were weeping or injured. However, it was the dead and decaying bodies that lay on the floor, forcing those still alive to shuffle around them, that made him most uneasy.

There seemed to be no one in charge, and the prisoners, catching sight of the two musketeers, began to either implore them for help or vilify them with curses. The cacophony was soon overwhelming. "Do you see anyone who appears to be even nominally in charge?" shouted Treville in Aramis' ear. The man shook his head, finding it hard to believe the chaos that was in front of them. "How are we ever going to find them?" he yelled back.

As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Treville spotted a small room to the right of the last holding cell. He motioned to the door, which had a small, barred window. Aramis following close by his side, he quickly covered the length of the room, and peered through the small opening. A thin man, his skin the colour of aged, crumbling paper, was passed out, arms sprawled across the desk. A large bottle of cheap whiskey, more than half empty, sat within inches of his left hand.

"This must be the brains of the operations," commented Aramis sardonically. "Now what do we do?"

"Go to the governor's quarters," Treville growled, his eyes full of fury. "There is no way I am allowing Charlotte or Athos to spend a moment longer in this godforsaken place than necessary."

Their eyes scanned the holding cells as they walked back down the length of the room, but there was no sign of the couple. Aramis asked several of the more coherent prisoners if they had seen anyone answering to their description come in that day, and they all shook their heads negatively. Exiting the building, Treville cracked his knuckles as he put his gloves back on.

"I've a score to settle already with the prison governor. If either of them has been hurt, he will pay dearly. His quarters are just outside the back wall of the prison, on the Boulevard Saint-Martin. We can be there in twenty minutes if the weather doesn't turn worse." He glanced up at the sky, noting the dark, thick clouds that were rolling in as the wind picked up. Turning his collar up, Aramis nodded at Treville, and they set off at a brisk pace.

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The governor, a man named Alain Lancre, was exasperated beyond belief. His weekly game of cards had been rudely interrupted by a messenger who had arrived at the rather upscale tavern he frequented near the Square of St. Denis. The man had brought him the unwelcome news that a pair of prisoners had been brought in that had potentially explosive ramifications to their charges.

"They appear to be a couple. The man," said the messenger carefully, when Lancre had stopped berating him long enough to listen to what he had to say, "is named Athos. He has been accused of poisoning an apothecary named Bertrand Gaillard. More pertinent is that fact that he is an esteemed lieutenant in the musketeer regiment of Captain Treville, and also is a godfather to the Dauphin."

"Not a royal connection!" moaned Lancre. "I don't have the desire or the energy to sort this now. Thank God I insisted on us having a private room for this discussion," he said, congratulating himself on his cleverness.

The messenger was dumbfounded by this assertion, especially as it was he who had practically had to drag the governor into a secluded room. Lancre, already well on his way to getting drunk, had protested that he was perfectly fine with getting the briefing while continuing to play cards with a pretty young woman perched on his lap. Rolling his eyes, the man plunged ahead with the rest of the information. "The woman is the daughter of the dead apothecary, and evidence of black magic has been found in her possession."

"Really?" Lancre replied, his interest sharpening. "I shall have to make the Cardinal aware of this situation. He always relishes the chance to put on a good show with the burning of a witch. Is she pretty?"

The messenger shrugged. "I suppose-if you like redheads. She has a nice figure."

"Well, the Cardinal is not discriminating about hair colour, as long as they have a body that appeals to him." He smirked. "The old lecher often likes to have a personal session with them before the burning so they can confess their sins to him and receive absolution." He thought for a moment, then instructed the messenger, "Tell the warden on duty that the Cell of the Nameless will do for now. I'll sort this mess in the morning. Now leave, before you ruin my streak of good luck."

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Charlotte and Athos sat on the floor, bodies pressed together for warmth in the chill of the small six by six foot cell. Athos had felt even his own considerable courage quail when he had heard that they would be put in isolation in a little-known holding area that was set aside for the prominent or especially troublesome accused. The governor of the prison had rightly judged that the musketeer and the apothecary's daughter fit into both categories, and had ordered them thrown into the Cell of the Nameless until he decided what to do with them.

Athos had ever only heard rumours of the existence of such a place, but he knew enough to be aware that people often died there before ever being formally accused of any crime. The prisoners housed in this area did not appear on any official ledger or roster, and were known by name only by the governor. In the context of their captivity, they were referred to only by number. Athos was Prisoner 9923, and Charlotte was Prisoner 9924.

The cell they were resident in smelled of urine, and dirty straw was strewn about the floor, likely to try to hide the human excrement that was doubtless lurking there, thought Athos in distaste. He glanced at Charlotte, and saw that she had finally been able to achieve that twilight between rest and sleep. Her wrists had been rubbed raw by the shackles, and exhaustion was etched deeply into her features. Leaning over, he kissed her forehead, and she sighed, leaning her head against his shoulder. "I love you, Athos," she murmured as her eyes closed, her voice hoarse and drained.

Looking down at her, he found his mind wanting urgently to transport them to the peace and comfort of la Fère, and as his own eyes fell shut, he was there.

_He thought of the vineyard that climbed the mountain behind the chateau. In spring, it was filled with butterflies and birds, and he and Thomas had spent many a lazy evening there catching fireflies. He imagined Charlotte in a simple white cotton dress, holding his hand and laughing as they walked through the vineyard on a sunny summer day. After a walk through the vines to check on the grapes, they would stop to lay out a blanket under a large, shady beech tree, and share a simple lunch of wine, bread, and cheese. _

_In his mind's eye, he could picture the view from under that particular tree, which stood at the top of a small rise. Beneath them, the entire valley that surrounded the chateau spread out like an emerald quilt, the patchwork of villages and cultivated lands dotting the peaceful landscape. The fields would be green with the plants flourishing under the care of the farmers. The majestic Loire River, its crystalline blue waters once again teeming with fish, would sparkle below them as the sun glinted on its surface._

_Once their stomachs were full and the bottle of wine drained, he would hold Charlotte in his arms and tell her stories of his boyhood. She would alternately laugh at one tale, then scold him after the next for the scrape he and Thomas had gotten into. Gradually they would drowse off to sleep in the heat of the mid-afternoon day, waking as the sun was at its zenith. Taking Charlotte by the hand, Athos would lead her to a small spring-fed creek that was in a secluded spot at the edge of the vineyard. They would walk along the bank, Athos playfully threatening to throw her in if she did not kiss him._

_Wrapping one arm around his waist, she would bend his head down to her. "As you are the Comte here, I suppose I must obey your command." After offering him a long, sweet kiss that left him breathless, he would reach for her hand to continue on, only to find himself shoved unceremoniously into the water._

_As he emerged from the water dripping wet, she would find herself helpless with laughter and thus be an easy target for him to scoop up into his arms. As she struggled, pronouncing a string of dire threats, he would simply grin and wade out into the centre of the stream, then submerge them both under the water. As they broke the surface, she would squeal with the shock of the cold water, stopping only when he set her on her feet and lowered his mouth to her neck, trailing a line of kisses that…._

His dream was rudely interrupted by the scrape of a key in the rusted lock of the cell. A hulking giant of a guard threw a mouldy bit of bread onto the straw in front of them, then tossed a bucket of water in, purposely allowing it to turn over and drain onto the concrete.

"Oh…sorry. I'm so clumsy. Don't worry, though-there will be more water again this time tomorrow." His laugh, an unnaturally high-pitched cackle for a man of his size, reverberated against the stone walls as he slammed the door shut and locked it.

Athos crawled over to the bucket as quickly as he could and set it upright. Looking inside, he detected a cupful of water or so left in the bottom. Insects were floating in it, and he gagged when he dipped a finger in it and put it to his mouth. The taste was abominable, and he worried that if he or Charlotte drank it, they would fall victim to some illness.

"It's undrinkable, isn't it?" Charlotte's tone was flat and direct. "Well, at least we have the bread."

Athos picked up the crust and shifted back into place next to her. "Looks delicious," he said wryly, showing her the green spots of mould that adorned the surface of the bread.

"We'll just eat around the mould," she declared practically, breaking off a piece and offering it to him. "You first." She smiled at him.

He scanned the bread and broke a similar crust off for her. "Here. We need to eat together."

As they chewed the morsels, which proved uncommonly hard, Charlotte began to laugh. "So, I suppose this is our official second date?"

He looked at her, his eyes crinkling slightly in amusement. "Forgive me if I find the atmosphere a bit lacking in romance."

"But we're together," she replied softly. "I was terrified they would separate us." A scratching noise in the corner caught her attention, and she looked over to see a rat the size of a small cat hungrily eyeing the bread in her hand. Used to seeing rats and mice in the city, she was annoyed rather than fearful. "That rodent is repulsive. I have to concur that the romantic ambience is essentially nil at this point." Breaking off the mouldy parts of the bread, she threw them at the rat.

"Perhaps he can be our mascot," suggested Athos dryly.

"Brilliant idea!" exclaimed Charlotte, watching the rat twitch his whiskers in delight as he consumed the bread rapidly, relishing the last bit of bright green mould. She tilted her head. "Hmmm..he looks like a Michel to me, what do you think?"

A grin spread across Athos' face, and he began to chuckle. "I couldn't think of a better name for a rat. Michel it is."

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Constance stared at the Queen and found herself at a loss for words. "Someone wants to kill the Dauphin?" she whispered in shock. Anne handed her the paper she had found in her prayer book, and Constance's face paled as she read it. "You have to tell Aramis," she said firmly. "This threat must be taken seriously, and he will know how to handle it discreetly."

"How do I get a message to him?" Anne asked, her voice breaking. "I daren't send one directly."

Constance thought for a moment, then declared. "Gabriel."

"He is but a child!" Anne exclaimed. "I can't put him in the position of being involved, no matter how remotely, in actions of my own that could be considered treason."

"Have you and Aramis any kind of code you have used to communicate?"

The Queen shook her head. "All of our-communication—has been done in person."

"When I was a girl," Constance began hesitantly, "I had a cousin who had fought for the King on several fronts. He told me about a code they used along the front line that was simple, but effective. They took the numbers 1 through 10 and assigned a meaning to each number. 1 would mean a night attack, 2 the deployment of foot soldiers, and so on. So when the general was given a message telling him to "Expect two guests for supper," he would know that he was to put a regiments of foot soldiers into motion. The meaning of the numbers can be changed at will."

"Gabriel would not even need to have any knowledge of the code, but just would deliver the message to Aramis—verbally would be ideal," Anne's voice became brighter as she saw a thread of hope.

"You could say at times that it was from me, to avoid suspicion," Constance suggested. "I can make sure I have a chance meeting in the market with Aramis to pass him a message to apprise him of the code."

"That would be wonderful, Constance," Anne squeezed her hand gratefully. "But I think it would be prudent for you to refrain from delivering any message directly. If you were to do so, Aramis' reaction, even when he is careful to school his face, might alert anyone who is following you. From now on," she said, her voice tight, "we will have to assume that everyone in my household is suspect—and that we are under scrutiny at all times. When is Gabriel to meet with Aramis next?"

"I believe I heard the Master of Pages grumbling that Aramis was going to take the boy to do some work in the stables at the garrison tomorrow."

"Perfect." Anne said, her face thoughtful. "Would you be willing to spend a few minutes to devise a code with me, Constance?"

"Of course," she replied. "But perhaps I should have the Dauphin fed first?"

The baby was rooting on Anne's shoulder, and she longed to put him to her own breast. However, she was well aware that the wet nurse had been waiting to feed the infant.

Reading her thoughts, Constance said comfortingly, "He'll likely fall asleep after a quick feed, and you can nurse him when he wakes in a few hours." Nodding reluctantly, Anne passed him to Constance. When her lady-in-waiting returned, Anne had already sketched out the basics of a simple code. "All will be ready for Gabriel by tomorrow morning," she said with relief. "We just have to hope that Aramis can come up with a plan when he receives the message."

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When Gabriel reported for duty at the royal nursery the following morning, he was surprised to see Anne still there with the Dauphin. She usually came early to spend time with the baby before anyone was up, and had generally started her morning engagements by the time he arrived.

As he bowed, she smiled. "I hear you're going to the garrison today with Aramis."

"I am," Gabriel said, his voice full of excitement. "It was such an adventure last time—I can't wait to see what he has in store for me today!"

"Aramis is a loyal and true servant of the King," responded Anne soberly. "Would you be able to give him a message for me?"

"Of course," answered Gabriel, a bit puzzled by why the Queen would be sending a message to his friend. Her next words provided an explanation, as she gave him a fond hug, then stepped back to look at him. "Thank him for taking care of the one person I can always trust to be there for my son. Can you remember that? Deliver the message exactly, now. Don't be modest."

"I will obey your instructions to the letter," replied Gabriel solemnly, delighted both by the compliment and by the chance to be of service to his beautiful Queen. Bowing, he took his leave, and Anne picked up little Louis, who had started to fuss.

"And I will protect you with my life," she whispered to her son, holding him close to her heart.

**Next time...the Musketeers return to the Chatelet.**


	42. Chapter 42

**Chapter XLII...in which the boys visit the Chatelet, and Gabriel serves as a messenger to Aramis.**

**CHAPTER XLII**

Treville had been up long before dawn, and as the first light began to appear, Aramis, Porthos, and d'Artagnan were waiting for him outside his office when he arrived. He ushered them in and closed the door, leaning against it as he looked at Porthos and d'Artagnan.

"So, the King actually refused to see you?"

Porthos looked at d'Artagnan, then replied slowly, "Not exactly. We were told by his steward that he would be-occupied-until morning and was not available to speak with anyone."

Treville rubbed his face in a gesture of weariness. "Why in the world does that man feel compelled to entertain himself with an endless parade of mistresses when he has a beautiful, kind woman right by his side?"

D'Artagnan shrugged. "I suppose he thinks it's his right as King. It's a long and glorious tradition of the monarchy," he said, his voice full of irony.

"We had a similar experience at the prison governor's quarters," noted Aramis, his expression sober. "His staff claimed he was out and could not be reached."

"Well, I plan on making contact with him today," growled Treville. Picking up his hat, he said grimly, "It's already bad enough that Athos and Charlotte had to spend a night there being subjected to who knows what." As the Captain led the way out of his office, the three friends exchanged worried glances, hoping that the couple had come to no harm.

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The night spent in the utter blackness of their cell had been harrowing for Charlotte. The events of the ball had caused her to develop significant anxiety in the dark, and the screams that could intermittently be heard in the distance did not help to ease her mind

"Do they never stop beating or interrogating?" Charlotte shivered as she curled into a ball, lowering her head against Athos' shoulder. "It must be close to dawn. Those poor people sound like they are in agony."

"Torture at the Chatelet appears to be a round-the-clock affair," he responded quietly, then cleared his throat in an attempt to make his voice more cheerful. "Let's talk about other topics, preferably positive ones. Tell me about the best day of your life-bonus points if it includes me." He could sense a smile on her face even before he heard the soft laugh.

"You do love attention, don't you?" she responded wryly.

"From certain people, yes. The list is very select, but I think you merit a place on it."

"You _think_?" Charlotte echoed incredulously. "After all we've shared?"

A low laugh answered her."I was just checking to see if you were listening. But be forewarned, after we get out of here, it is quite possible I will be demanding more of your attention than ever."

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Anne had cleared her calendar for the day, giving the excuse of a headache, which was not entirely inaccurate. She was consumed with worry, and afraid to leave her son with anyone but Constance. As her friend sat sewing by the fire, the Queen decided to leave for a few minutes in order to clear her head.

"I'm going to slip down to the chapel for a bit of prayer. I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Take your time," said Constance affectionately. She was happy Anne had chosen to seek solace in a familiar environment, and hoped she would find a measure of comfort in her prayers. The Queen's footsteps receded as she exited the sitting room and descended the stairs to enter the chapel. The morning was still early, and all was peaceful. A small candle was flickering on the main altar, and Anne knelt at the altar rail, bowing her head.

Hearing footsteps from the sacristy, she sprang up to see the new chaplain, Father Lucien, looking at her apologetically. "I am so sorry, Your Majesty. I was preparing for morning Mass when I heard someone enter. I just wanted to make sure it was no one in need of counsel."

Anne gave him a grateful smile. She had been glad to have been given a voice in choosing the replacement for the murdered Father Marcel. Louis had actually been so busy being furious with Treville for failing to find the culprit behind the killing that he had turned the entire matter of choosing a new chaplain over to her.

Father Lucien, who had arrived at the palace the previous week with a letter of introduction from his employer, the Duc de Montbazon, had been staying with Father Marcel before the latter's untimely death. He had come to Paris for a personal pilgrimage of thanksgiving, and had planned to spend his time in quiet reflection. However, he had graciously put all his plans to the side and helped to counsel the murdered man's grieving parents. He had then overseen preparations for the funeral. Anne, impressed by his compassion and efficiency, had asked if he would be interested in becoming the palace chaplain.

When he had agreed to consider the post, despite his initial reluctance, the Queen had been given his official dossier. Leafing through it, she had been intrigued by his background. He was from a noble family, but had been taught charity to the poor from an early age. Possessed of a beautiful voice, he had been a member of the boys' choir at the cathedral in Toulouse, where he was raised. From there, he had been sent on to be schooled at the finest seminary in Paris, then had served as a chaplain to two of the most ancient and aristocratic families in France. His last posting, to the high-profile family of the Duc, had served as a fine training ground for his current position.

In her interview with him, Anne had found the middle-aged man to be humble, gracious, and direct. He had compassion for the needy, and listened with interest to her description of the work she had done to organize care for the multitude of widows and orphans in the city. They had already had a meeting to explore embarking on a joint project to offer basic prenatal care for expectant mothers in the Court of Miracles. She felt he was a kindred soul, and looked forward to working with him on projects that Louis had little interest in.

"I am sorry for having disturbed you." He bowed, and made to leave. Anne's voice stopped him. "Father, would you-sit a bit with me? A sympathetic ear would be most welcome."

He inclined his head, and guided her to the front pew. "What weighs upon your mind, Your Majesty?"

"Have you ever done something on impulse that you knew was wrong?" she blurted out. "And you—prayed for forgiveness, but were not sure that it had been given?"

He chuckled softly, and glanced to the altar briefly before meeting her eyes. "What human being hasn't? Even our Lord had doubts at times."

"Yes, but I am the Queen of France. There is no room for doubt in my actions."

Father Lucien reached for her hand, and said gently, "You may be the Queen of France, but you are a beloved daughter of God. If you are truly repentant, your sin has already been forgiven."

She hesitated, then pressed forward. "I am grieving for one of my ladies, who has had an unexpected pregnancy due to a brief affair. She intends to love and care for the baby, but regrets the manner of its introduction into the world, for the child will be forever branded as a bastard."

The chaplain answered her, sympathy evident on his face. "Not all of us are gifted with the restraint the Saviour showed in His brief time upon earth. If she does right by the baby and offers atonement for her sin, there is no reason that she and the child would not be welcomed into heaven."

"And what of the father?" Anne asked, her steady voice belying the turmoil she felt within her soul.

"Unlike many priests, I feel he shares equal, if not more, blame than the mother of the child, for he knew that he possessed the capability of creating a human being by engaging in intercourse, but abandoned the mother to her fate. However, since he will never show a swollen belly, he escapes any scrutiny or blame for the creation of a life out of wedlock." He sighed. "Such matters are difficult for all concerned. If this woman would like to speak with me directly, you can assure her of my sympathy and discretion. She is brave indeed to choose the path of an unwed mother."

"Thank you, Father," Anne said fervently. "Your kind words will mean more to her than you could possibly know."

He gave her a gentle smile, then said, "You may bring her—or your son-any time you would like for them to receive a blessing."

"Your compassion does you justice," Anne murmured. "Thank you again for listening to my troubles—and those of my ladies, for I hold them very dear to my heart."

"It is my pleasure." As she left the chapel, the priest's eyes followed her thoughtfully. _She is not an ordinary Queen. Unless I am mistaken, there is something weightier than a pregnant lady-in-waiting on her mind._

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As Treville and his men crossed the marketplace on horseback some time later, Constance stepped out of the shadows to hail Aramis. She felt a pang of conscience when d'Artagnan turned at the sound of her voice, only to see her summon his comrade. "A message from a loved one," she murmured quickly, realizing from Treville's manner that the quartet of soldiers were on an urgent mission. She pressed a small piece of paper into his hand. "It's a code for you to use to interpret the message that Gabriel will bring you later."

"Thank you," he inclined his head for an instant, then continued on smoothly, with barely a break in his horse's stride.

Constance stared after them, wishing desperately that d'Artagnan would look back one more time. Disappointed, she squared her shoulders and set off to walk the two blocks back to the palace, hoping that Gabriel's message would alert Aramis to the threat on his son's life.

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The musketeers arrived at the Chatelet a short time later, and Treville's obvious fury granted them swift entrance to the prison governor's office. Lancre sat behind his desk, regarding the blue-caped soldiers sceptically.

"I have been informed that you seek the whereabouts of a musketeer of your company named Athos, as well as his female companion. I can assure you that there is no man registered under that name in the Chatelet at present."

Porthos seized the chance to break into the conversation, sensing some less than forthright behaviour on the part of the governor. "Is there a chance he is registered under another name? Or number?"

"Remember, you have sworn an oath to the King to uphold justice," stated Treville, his eyes threatening.

"I suppose there is a chance that he and his woman have been registered under an alias," admitted the governor, his voice sour. "But I would need sufficient time for a thorough investigation."

"Of course," said Aramis, his voice pleasant. "But I would advise you to conclude your investigation by sundown." He lowered his voice as he leaned against the edge of the desk. "We are not patient men."

The governor settled back in his chair, picking up some documents and scanning them. "I'll see what I can do, but I can't make any promises."

D'Artagnan, standing against the wall with his arms crossed, shook his head regretfully. "Sorry. Not good enough." He looked at Porthos. "Perhaps he needs a bit of encouragement…I believe that's right up your alley, my friend." As the big man flexed his hands and advanced towards the desk, glowering at Lancre, the governor shrank back in his chair. "I will be sure to have a full report ready by dusk."

"That's more like it," declared d'Artagnan comfortably, shooting Porthos a smirk.

"Are you callin' me off?" Porthos gave his friend a look of disappointment. "But you promised I could crack some heads here. We haven't seen any action in two days, and I'm gettin' antsy."

"Well, if the Monsieur Lancre makes things difficult for us this evening, you'll be free to work off your nervous energy," stated Treville calmly, putting his hat on. As they filed out the door, he turned back and grinned at the governor. "You really don't want to come up against Porthos when he's had all day to anticipate a brawl. Nasty business."

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The musketeers returned to the garrison in time for a late breakfast. Aramis sat at the table a little apart from his friends, distractedly running a hand through his dark hair. He had already memorized the code, and prayed that the number one would not appear in any message Gabriel had for him. _One means the Dauphin is in danger_. Constance had written the words in her neat, precise script, and Aramis saw them in his mind even as he balled up the paper and threw it into the fire in the hearth. He recalled the red-inked passages that Anne had showed him in her Bible, and his blood ran cold.

Porthos slid over next to his friend. "Bad news?"

"I hope not." Aramis' soulful brown eyes stared at the fire as the paper disintegrated.

Madeleine darted into the kitchen and made a beeline for Serge. "Good morning!" she chirped, hugging him as he flushed with pleasure.

"Looks as though you have an admirer," observed d'Artagnan with a smile.

"The feeling is mutual," declared Serge, handing the little girl a mug of hot chocolate. "Mademoiselle Madeleine, these are Athos' good friends. The burly one with the leather that looks like it came off a lizard's back is Porthos." He leaned over and whispered loudly. "He has to look the scariest because he's really the biggest softie in the bunch." Madeleine smiled as Porthos stood up and bowed regally. "It is a pleasure, Mademoiselle."

"The one next to him with the spirit of a romantic hero and a long list of lady friends—that's Aramis." The man in question held his hand over his heart and gave her his most devastating smile. "Enchanted, Mademoiselle." She blew him a kiss, causing the men to break into laughter.

"And last but not least—the one with the dark brown eyes of a puppy-appropriate as he's the whelp of the group-" he paused and smirked as d'Artagnan glared at Serge on cue-"is our little d'Artagnan, late of Gascony."

Turning to Madeleine and placing his hand on her shoulder, he then said formally, "May I have the honour, my good men, of introducing Mademoiselle Madeleine Montville. She and her mother Denise, who is a cousin of Charlotte, will be boarding with us for several days." As he finished his introduction, Denise entered the kitchen, and Madeleine ran to take her by the hand.

"This is my mama. She is a brilliant seamstress, so if you have any torn garments, make sure to bring them to her so she's not bored," Madeleine announced cheerfully.

Denise blushed and gently chided Madeleine. "I'm sure the men already have someone to take care of their clothes."

"Actually," said Porthos thoughtfully, "The seamstress around the corner is a bit cranky, and she doesn't do the most thorough job. Could I impose on you to mend two of my shirts? Whatever price you think is fair."

"I'd be happy to, and I'll do it for free. The Captain has been very generous in allowing us to take refuge here while Charlotte is-detained. I would never have felt comfortable remaining at the apothecary, and I will not leave Paris until I know she and Athos are safe."

"Your loyalty is admirable," observed Porthos. A slight grin appeared on his face. "You would make a good musketeer."

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As was now their custom, Gabriel was waiting at the east gate when Aramis rode up. He still gave the horse a wide berth, but was less rigid with fear in the saddle than previously. The boy chattered on as they rode, and impressed Aramis with his ready recollection of the buildings and historical landmarks that he had shown him previously.

When they arrived at the garrison and went to the stables, Aramis gave him a fond smile and placed his hand on the boy's shoulder. "I've something special to show you this morning. Remember last time I showed you Serge's mare, the one who was about to foal soon?"

"Did she have the baby?" asked Gabriel eagerly.

"Just this morning. It's a colt. Would you like to see him?"

Breathless with excitement, he nodded, his eyes shining. Aramis guided him around the first set of stalls to a small makeshift paddock. Serge's horse, Tulip, was nuzzling her foal, who was attempting to stand on his gangly legs. The animal's long limbs seemed completely out of proportion to the rest of his body. When he finally managed to get up and somewhat unsteadily walk over to his mother to nurse, Gabriel was watching with rapt attention.

Leaning over at the railing, Aramis asked him lightly, "So, what do you think?"

"He's—lovely. His coat is so striking-the colour is like a blend of gold and brown. It reminds me of that jewel—I think you call it a topaz?"

"Well, he's yours."

"What?" Gabriel's voice sounded small and uncertain. "But—his mother is Serge's horse."

"And he was planning on selling the colt when he was weaned. So I've made arrangements to buy him."

"Aramis—" the boy, completely overwhelmed, took a deep breath to try to steady himself, but failed, and began to cry. The musketeer folded him in his arms, suspecting that the boy was weeping not only for the joy of the gift, but also for the loss of his father.

"I'm sorry," Gabriel choked. "I know it's not manly to cry. The Master always says so."

"Well, the Master is an idiot," declared Aramis with feeling. "A man who does not cry is a man who has no soul. You have had a hard few months, my little brother, and I hope this present will bring you joy."

Wiping his eyes, the boy looked up at him, grateful beyond words. "I'll pay you back, I promise-every sou!"

"Oh, don't worry, you will," said Aramis cheerfully. "I have plans for you to work off the purchase price by mucking the stalls when it's my turn to do so."

"Maybe when he gets bigger we could take him to the palace and show the Dauphin?"

"I bet he would love to see him," answered Aramis with a wistful smile.

"That reminds me! I was supposed to give you a message from Queen Anne!"

"What did she say?" inquired the musketeer, trying to keep his voice even and natural.

"She said, 'Thank him for taking care of the one person I can always trust to be there for my son.' "

Aramis felt the blood drain out his face, and Gabriel looked at him uneasily as he gripped the rail tightly. "I know it sounds like I'm boasting, but she said I was to give you her exact words."

"You're not boasting! Not at all. I just felt a bit dizzy for a minute. I think it's because I didn't have much sleep last night." He gave the boy a weak grin. "Perhaps I should sit down."

Gabriel immediately put his arm around his friend and guided him to sit on a hay bale. "Shall I fetch one of the other musketeers?" he asked, hovering anxiously over his friend.

"No!" Aramis' voice sounded much more urgent than he had intended. Forcing himself to calm down, he said reassuringly,"I'll be fine—I just need some rest. Perhaps we should cut today's session short and head back to the palace."

"Are you sure you can ride back with me? I could ask Porthos or one of the other men..."

"I'm fine," declared Aramis in a firm voice.

However, as they rode into the palace gates an hour later, Aramis felt anything but fine. _Knowing that someone wants to hurt my son is bad enough...but the fact that I cannot be there by his side to protect him is driving me insane._

Desperate for a chance to ensure that the baby was safe, Aramis decided to walk Gabriel up to the nursery. "He's usually taking a nap this time of day," said Gabriel, looking at the clock in the hallway. They passed by the Queen's sitting room, and Aramis noticed immediately that there was no one on duty. "Where are the Queen and her ladies?" he asked uneasily. "Perhaps they are with the baby," Gabriel replied, oblivious to his friend's discomfort.

But as he pushed the door to the nursery open, Aramis knew immediately that he had been right to feel fear.

**A cruel cliffhanger...**


	43. Chapter 43

**Chapter XLIII...in which Gabriel and Aramis are faced with a life-and-death situation, and things turn darker for Athos and Charlotte.**

**CHAPTER XLIII**

The wet nurse was sitting in a rocking chair, holding the Dauphin as she breastfed him. What should have been a cosy, tender moment was made chilling by the fact that she had a glittering dagger suspended vertically from her free hand. The baby was intrigued by the shining blade, and his fat little hands kept trying to capture it as she dangled it in front of him. Even more disturbing was the fact that she was singing softly to herself the lullaby Aramis had taught Anne.

As his eyes fixed on the knife, Aramis felt the blood drain out of his face. An enormous pressure seemed to build in his chest, and he could barely breathe. The woman looked up, and smiled at him maliciously.

"I was hoping you'd turn up, seeing as how you took the boy out with you today. Works out well for all of us—you can watch your son die." She sighed. "If only the Queen were here to complete the family gathering."

Gabriel's eyes swung to Aramis for an instant, then returned to fix on the Dauphin.

Aramis held up his hands, palms facing out in a conciliatory gesture. "Madame, you are mistaken. I don't know why you think what you do—"

"Do **not** play me for a fool," the woman snapped. "I knew from the beginning something was off." She smoothed the hair back from little Louis' forehead and dropped the dagger a little lower, allowing him to touch the side of the blade.

"No! You'll hurt him!" Gabriel's cry of distress caused the baby to start wailing.

The nurse's eyes blazed with anger. "You little brat! Now you've gone and upset him." She jiggled Louis in the crook of her arm, and he calmed a bit, then began to nurse again. "I've been a wet nurse for the royal family for twenty years, and this boy is no Bourbon. He doesn't look like one or act like one-and I've spent hours staring at royal babies."

"He is just a babe," said Aramis in a gentle, quiet voice, his face earnest and open. "Perhaps the infusion of Spanish blood from his mother has given him an appearance that is unique."

"Or perhaps having **two** Spanish parents has made the difference." The wet nurse's words were laced with bitterness. She then began to laugh—an inhuman, malevolent cackle that made Aramis' blood run cold. "Everyone **always** forgets the wet nurse. We sustain the babe through the first year of his life, feed him when everyone else gets to sleep, change him, sing to him—and who cares? No one. I doubt the Queen even knows my name."

"You're mistaken," said Gabriel forcefully, shaking his head. "The Queen knows everyone on the staff, and she cares for all of us."

"Ha! Just like she cares for her husband—by taking another man to her bed."

Aramis kept his tone carefully neutral. "Madame, I swear to you—"

"I heard you!" She screamed. "Do not lie to me! On New Year's Eve, the Queen dismissed her ladies, but as usual, forgot about me. When I showed up to give the baby his night-time feed, all was dark and quiet. I stood in the sitting room, trying to figure out what on earth was going on, when I heard her laughing. That's how I knew someone other than the King was in her chamber. When he comes to her, the only laughter coming from that room is from him. Then I heard a male voice singing in Spanish, and it all became clear. **She had a lover.** That was why, after all these years, she had finally conceived."

Looking down at the baby, who had become drowsy, and was only intermittently nursing, she said with determination, "There is no way I am going to let a bastard sit on the throne of France. The King could have picked any number of wet nurses to take care of the Dauphin—but he picked me. He knew I was special. He is too good—too trusting. He has no idea that Spanish whore is passing off another man's child as his own."

"You cannot harm an innocent child," murmured Aramis, trying valiantly to keep his voice soothing. "He is not to blame for anything that has upset you."

"That's right," the woman, her voice eerily calm. "You and your slut are to blame, and you two alone will bear the burden of knowing that it was you that caused the death of your child, not me. In fact, once the King hears my story, he will make sure the two of you die as well."

Although Gabriel had been on the staff of the Dauphin only a short time, he knew every inch of the nursery. While Aramis was trying to reason with the wet nurse, his mind had been racing, desperately trying to think of how he could cause a distraction long enough for Aramis to disarm the woman. He suddenly recalled that there was a large china figurine of a rabbit that sat on the shelf behind where they were standing. Inching back, he placed his hands discreetly behind his back, and was successfully able to wrap his fingers around the statue. As the woman finished her last sentence, his hand shot out and he threw the figurine with all his might against the wall, directly above her head.

As she cringed from the sound, her grip around the dagger became lax for an instant. In that moment, Aramis hurled himself across the room and knocked it out of her hand, while simultaneously wresting the baby from her arm.

Backing away from her, he was puzzled to see her expression go from surprise to anticipation. The reason became clear when she pulled a pistol out from the folds of the cloak lying next to her. "You thought you were in the clear, eh? Well, you've just made things more interesting. I've always been a good shot. What are the odds I can kill you** both** at the same time?"

In what seemed like a millisecond, Aramis pulled his own pistol out, cocked it, and shot her directly in the heart. As blood blossomed across her dress, she stared down at her chest open-mouthed, looked up at Aramis with pure hatred, then fell to the floor dead.

"Those odds would be nil." Aramis' voice was contemptuous as he turned her body over with his foot.

"What makes people like that so twisted?" came Gabriel's voice from behind him, trembling with emotion. "Who would want to hurt a baby?"

"She was obviously mentally ill," she Aramis soberly, shaking his head and trying to soothe the baby, who had been terrified by the noise of the pistol and was crying loudly. "I mean, she thought that the Queen of France and I had had an affair? And that the heir to the throne was **my** child?" He threw up his free hand and gave Gabriel a look of disbelief. "As if that would ever happen. Royal women don't do musketeers."

The boy, who had been unsure just what to think of the woman's accusations, felt relieved by his friend's words, and gave him a tentative smile. "Of course not. She was so convincing, though—for a moment I almost believed her."

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As dusk began to descend on Paris, Athos and Charlotte were on their feet, walking back and forth in the dreary confines of their cell in an attempt to stay warm and keep their muscles from cramping.

"These shackles are just unbearable!" muttered Charlotte, her voice irritable. She glanced at Athos. His face was lined with fatigue, and his dark brown hair, unruly in the best of times, was tangled and limp. "I'm sorry," she whispered, stopping and reaching awkwardly for his hands. "I shouldn't complain. You stayed up all night to keep watch, and I know you're exhausted. Thank you for taking such good care of me." She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him softly. She felt his body lean into hers.

"Being unable to hold you is unbearable," he murmured, and returned her kiss, his need for her evident in the deep, lingering moments their lips touched.

A key was held fumbling in the lock, and the door scraped upon as they quickly separated, Athos gripping her hand tightly as their shackles clinked together. The giant of a guard that had delivered their sorry excuse for a meal the previous night was back, and he had brought two comrades with him. Smirking, he threw another rancid loaf of bread onto the floor. This time, he aimed to slosh the bucket of water on the bread, but threw it just wide.

"It is inhumane to treat any prisoner, especially a woman, in such a manner," said Athos angrily.

"Inhumane?" the guard laughed uproariously. "You have **no idea** what inhumane is. On a Chatelet scale of 1 to 10, that's way less than a 1. But don't worry, we'll step it up tonight, and let you experience hospitality Chatelet-style. Actually, to be clear, your woman will have the honour of the full treatment." He grinned, baring his yellowed teeth.

Turning to his co-workers, he nodded at Charlotte. "That's my entry. 9923."

The taller of the two, bald and potbellied, eyed Charlotte speculatively. "Well, she's a hell of a lot better than the usual slim pickings you have here in the Cell of the Nameless. But the question is, is she new to the game?"

"Never been in circulation in this jail, or any other," boasted the giant guard proudly. "I aim to make a pretty penny off her tonight. I'm tired of always havin' no money myself to buy an hour with a woman in the Friday night auction. And if you help me market her, I'll give you a quarter of the earnings. Now grab her and let's go."

"No!" Athos stepped protectively in front of Charlotte, his voice firm and commanding. "She goes nowhere without me."

The pot-bellied guard laughed mockingly, looking at his friends. "Do you hear him? He thinks his status as a musketeer counts for something in here. He thinks he can give us orders. And, even more touching, he thinks he can keep her safe." Pushing Athos aside and seizing Charlotte, he began to drag her out of the cell as she fought him every step of the way. Athos, meanwhile, rushed the other two men, swinging his fists up and at them in an attempt to use his heavy iron chains as a weapon.

He was hampered by the shackles on his feet, however, and stumbled. The other two men pushed him to the ground and began to beat him mercilessly as Charlotte screamed, fighting the man who held her as she tried vainly to get back to Athos. "Leave him alone! You'll kill him!" she cried out, panic-stricken by how quickly his resistance become feeble.

"Leave off," Charlotte's captor called out impatiently. "We've got an auction to get to! We're not going' to make any money standing around here!"

The men reluctantly stopped and moved away after giving Athos one last kick in the side. As she was dragged bodily from the cell, Charlotte looked back to see Athos lying motionless on the floor. His blue eyes were closed, and his head was tilted at an unnatural angle. In the last glimpse she had, she saw to her horror a trail of blood tracing down his face from his scalp. _They've killed him_, she thought in despair as the heavy iron door slammed shut behind them.

**Next time...Treville and his men return to speak with the governor of the prison.**


	44. Chapter 44

**Chapter XLIV...in which Aramis witnesses an awkward scene between Louis and Anne, and Treville is forced to seek the King's aid in order to rescue Athos and Charlotte from the Chatelet.**

**CHAPTER XLIV**

As Aramis left the palace, the events of the previous hour were replaying continuously in his brain. He saw his son smiling as he reached for the glittering danger, the wet nurse's smirk as she taunted him, and the blood spreading lazily across the nursery floor.

Anne and Constance had rushed in moments after the shooting, and the Queen had been nearly hysterical when she had seen the morbid scene in front of her. "We just left for five minutes—just long enough to go check on the preparations for His Majesty's birthday celebration next week. I thought the Dauphin would be safe with the nurse-I thought-" her voice faltered, and her face had filled with guilt. Aramis had gently handed her the baby, murmuring, "The little one is fine. No harm has come to him. I promised you that I would protect him with my life, and I have kept my promise, Your Majesty."

Her eyes had filled with tears, and the grateful smile she had given him as she had snuggled her son against her chest had filled his heart with sadness. _How I wish I could hold her and the baby. Why did I put myself—and her—and our child, in such an impossible position?_

At that moment, the King had burst into the room. "What in the world is going on?" he demanded. "I was just coming up the stairs to the gallery, and I thought I heard—" His words trailed away as he saw the wet nurse lying dead in a pool of blood, and he whispered, "—gunfire."

"All is well, Sire," said Anne reassuringly. "We were in luck that Aramis happened to be returning Gabriel to the nursery, and the two of them were able to prevent something terrible from happening. It seems as if the nurse was not mentally sound."

Louis turned on her in a fury, his tone accusing. "This is all your fault! Why can I not trust you with even the **simplest** of tasks?! **You** insisted on this woman. **I** had an uneasy feeling about her from the start."

"Sire, remember our discussion!" Anne pleaded, her voice trembling. "It was you who picked her from a whole host of candidates. You **know** I preferred the woman from the household of the Comte de Armond, but you refused.."

"Are you contradicting me?" Louis inquired, his eyes cold.

She lowered her eyes, then whispered, "Of course not, Sire. I'm sure my memory is faulty. Please accept my apology."

"Accepted." He gazed at her, his face pale and hard. "I have a meeting to get to with Captain Treville. At least **he** only disappoints me **some** of the time." Turning, he swept out of the room, which fell completely silent except for the sound of Anne's breath hitching as she tried not to break into tears.

"Here, Your Majesty, let's get you settled," Constance laid on soothing hand on the Queen's arm, ushering her out of the room with a regretful look at Aramis. Just before Constance closed the door, Anne looked back at Aramis one last time. "You have a rare gift, Aramis. Whenever I am in trouble, you always seem to turn up and make it right. If only-" she choked back a sob, and took a deep breath. "You are a brave and true friend of the Crown. You will always have a place in my heart—and that of my son." Drawing back, her sky blue eyes fixed on his face until the door softly clicked shut.

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When Treville was ushered into the audience room, he saw at once that the king was in a foul mood. _Brilliant_, he thought glumly. _Just what I need to make a difficult job even harder._

"Captain Treville. I was told you had something urgent to discuss with me?"

Bowing, the Captain answered, "Yes, Your Majesty. I do very much appreciate you taking the time—"

"Cut to the chase, Captain." Louis' voice was shrill and irritable. "I'm a busy man."

_It is impossible to ever please him when he is in such a frame of mind_, Treville thought wearily. _If I had launched into the request without the proper formalities, he would have berated me for skipping them._

"It is a matter of great importance, Your Majesty. It involves Athos, the godfather of your son. He has been accused of murder by poisoning, and is currently being held prisoner in the Chatelet."

The King's face took on a look of displeasure, and Treville pressed on hastily. "It is my belief he has been framed. The Athos I know would not be capable of such an action. Surely you realize that as well."

"I'm not sure what to believe," replied Louis evenly. "Whom is he accused of murdering?"

"An apothecary named Bertrand Gaillard."

The monarch lifted an aristocratic eyebrow, carelessly tossing his empty goblet at a servant, who scurried to refill it. "Why is he accused? What is the supposed motive?"

The Captain cleared his throat, wading carefully into dangerous waters. "He has become—involved—with the apothecary's daughter, Charlotte. She was the one who tended Athos after he was injured while saving your son's life. Her father apparently did not approve."

"A crime of passion." The King became thoughtful. "Well, it will not do to have my son's godfather go through a public trial. The gossip would be terrible." He stood up, and said decisively, "I have come to a decision. I will give you a letter authorizing him to be released into your custody. I will hear the case myself and decide what punishment, if any, he merits."

"What about the girl, Your Majesty?"

"What of her?"

Taking a deep breath, Treville informed the King of the charges against Charlotte, knowing what would inevitably come next.

"Hmmm….the plot thickens. Now a charge of witchcraft has also been made. The Cardinal will need to be involved." His eyes narrowed. "Are you willing to be responsible for her as well? If not, she remains in the Chatelet. I can't have accused witches running around Paris. It's bad for my image."

"I have no doubt that she has been unjustly accused as well," replied Treville, his tone sincere. "I am more than willing to have her released into my custody."

The King motioned for a clerk to approach. The man sprang forward, bringing him a piece of paper, a fountain pen, and the royal seal. Louis quickly scribbled a few lines, then folded the paper carefully and sealed it. He handed it to Treville, who bowed and turned to leave.

"Treville." The monarch's voice rang out in the empty room, and the musketeer swung around to face him again. "Remember, justice is justice. If I find one or both of them guilty, the punishment will be death. Athos, of course, would have to be executed privately to avoid a scandal. We would explain his untimely death by making it known that he died on a mission, fighting valiantly for King and country. But this girl—if she is found guilty, she will have to be publicly burned. The Cardinal will insist."

The Captain nodded. "Understood, Your Majesty. I trust in your judgement, for I have every reason to think that they are innocent." As he bowed again and departed, Treville felt his stomach churning. _I just hope the evidence is not as damning as I think it is._

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When the musketeers met up at the Chatelet, the winter sun was close to sinking behind the horizon. The wind had whipped up, and the chill of the air only served to magnify the foreboding that the men felt when they dismounted.

"Surely the letter will convince the governor to be frank with us?" asked d'Artagnan, his youthful face full of concern.

"If it doesn't, I shall have to invoke plan B," muttered Treville. "Which is to have Porthos work him over. But I doubt he will need more than the royal seal to free up his tongue."

When they approached the office, the Captain halted. "Perhaps I should go in alone. He may be more at ease if it is just myself with an official letter in hand."

The three men reluctantly agreed, and took up positions outside the office. Porthos stalked back and forth, full of nervous energy. Finally, he blurted out, "Waitin' is makin' me crazy. I'm goin' to take a look around the inner perimeter. See what I can find out. I'll be back in plenty of time to use my methods of persuasion on Governor Lancre if it becomes necessary." Aramis and d'Artagnan nodded, both lost in their worry for their missing comrade.

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As Charlotte was led down the dark, musty hallway, the stone walls seemed to be closing in on her, and her vision blurred with tears. She stumbled and fell heavily on her left side, unable to effectively break the fall with her chained hands. The pain as her head hit the floor was excruciating, and she was momentarily stunned, then overwhelmed by nausea. Closing her eyes, she thought in anguish, _I just want to die. If he is dead, I have no more reason to live. My father is dead, our business is destroyed. I have nothing left._

A rough hand wrenched her elbow, and she cried out in pain. "Get up, you clumsy bitch! Don't be hurting yourself before I can show you off."

Dragging herself to her knees and coughing, she vaguely heard another voice lazily observe, "Aww, it's no big deal. You know some of the guards like them when they've been worked over a bit. There's someone for everyone, I always say."

A coarse laugh followed. "You're right, but if she knocks out a tooth, her market value goes down considerably." Two pairs of hands lifted her up bodily, and as she swayed, trying to regain her balance, she felt one pair of hands steal towards the front of her dress. Screaming in terror, she began to thrash about in a frantic attempt to get away. It was then that she heard a voice cry out threateningly, "Oi! You three! What are you doin' with that woman?"

Turning, Charlotte almost cried with relief when she saw the bulky frame of Porthos, bristling in his leather, silhouetted at the end of the hall. "Charlotte!" he exclaimed. His voice becoming more menacing, he snarled, "Unhand her. Now!"

"You musketeers think you rule the world," the giant guard sneered. "But I have news for you. You have no authority over any of us on prison grounds, so shove off!"

As the man pulled Charlotte to her feet with a jerk, Porthos was at her side in seconds. One hand shot out to knock the largest man out cold with a blow to the head. Turning his attention immediately to the next man, he grasped the potbellied guard by the throat and slammed him against the wall with the speed and power of a hardened warrior.

"I don't take kindly to scum of the earth that abuse defenceless women," he growled, then drove his fist into the man's gut so hard that the man slumped to the ground, whimpering in pain. The third man took to his heels, running headlong down the corridor.

"Porthos! Thank God you came!" Charlotte breathed in the comforting smell of the big man's leather as he wrapped his arms around her.

"You're safe now. Come on, we're goin' straight to the Captain. He's with the prison governor, and in his hand is a letter from the King releasin' you and Athos into his custody until you stand trial."

At the mention of Athos' name, Charlotte buried her face into Porthos' chest and closed her eyes. "Athos—I saw the guards—" she swallowed, trying to control her emotions. "He tried to protect me and they beat him. Porthos, they were so brutal—even after he lay still, they continued to just hit him and hit him…."

"Shh..shh.." Porthos held her close. "He'll be good as new. We just need to get to him. Where is he?"

"They held us in the Cell of the Nameless," Charlotte said, her voice breaking. "But Porthos-I think he's-" she choked, unable to get the word out.

"He's what?" Porthos' voice was urgent. "Charlotte, you have to tell me. We have to find him. Now."

"I think he's dead," she whispered, and began to tremble, tears spilling down her face.

**Thank you to everyone for the follows/favorites/reviews! I can't believe this story has reached chapter 44! It really makes my day to see someone take the time to drop even a sentence to give me their thoughts...it is much appreciated!**


	45. Chapter 45

**Chapter XLV...in which Charlotte and a badly injured Athos are released into Captain Treville's custody, and make the journey back to the garrison.**

**CHAPTER XLV**

When Treville handed Governor Lancre the writ from the King, the man looked up at him coolly. "Well, you are in luck. I have in fact been able to determine that they were put into the Cell of the Nameless and logged into the records under numbers."

"And why was that?" inquired Treville, his voice making evident his suspicion that the governor was being less than honest with him.

The governor shrugged, leaning back in his chair and steepling his hands casually. "How am I to know? I was not on duty when they were inprocessed. Sometimes untoward events happen, despite our best efforts."

"I would agree with you," growled Treville, "**if **I actually thought you had given your best effort."

"I am sorry we do not see eye to eye on this," responded the governor blandly, beginning to arrange some papers on his desk. "But I will be glad to provide a guard to escort you to their cell."

At that moment, the door flew open to reveal a glowering Porthos, his imposing figure filling up the entire frame. He pointed a finger at Lancre, his voice shaking with rage. "You! You have no control over the animals you 'ave runnin' this place! I found three guards attemptin' to assault this young woman," he drew Charlotte into the room, placing a protective arm around her shoulder. Treville was shocked at her appearance, and almost had to look away for an instant to hide his dismay.

Charlotte's dress was torn and dirty, and the left side of her face was covered in abrasions that were splotched with dried blood. Her usually vibrant, thick auburn hair was matted and tangled. But what most concerned Treville was her eyes. They were lifeless, without a trace of her usual vivacity.

Crossing the space between them in moments, Treville gently took her hands in his, noting the raw skin under her manacles.

"Someone will pay," he muttered, his eyes steely. "I will make sure of that. But Charlotte, where is Athos?"

"They separated us just a short time ago," she murmured, her voice hoarse. "Captain, I'm so afraid. Athos tried to stop them from taking me, and was badly beaten. When I last saw him, he was lying unconscious on the floor of the cell, bleeding from his head." She looked down, emotion overwhelming her again.

Treville lifted her chin to look into her eyes. He mentally shuddered at the hopelessness he saw there, and strove to make his voice sound reassuring. "We will go there now. Together. And we will heal him-I promise you."

Turning to Lancre, Treville snarled, "The King will hear of this. Expect to be relieved of your command. Now find me a guard, get these chains off Mademoiselle Gaillard, and get me to that cell before I make you regret you ever took this job!" His voice crescendoed to a shout.

Hands shaking, the governor motioned to a guard standing to the side of the room. "Unchain her and take them to the Cell of the Nameless, then escort this woman and prisoner 9924—"

"His name is Athos. He's not a number!" barked out a furious Treville..

Cringing, Lancre continued, his voice assuming a meek tone, "-to the gate—and release them into the Captain's custody."

As the irons were removed from Charlotte's hands and feet, Aramis went to her, delicately inspecting the angry, raw welts, several of which had begun to fester. "These wounds will need a good deal of care." His deep brown eyes looked into hers with compassion. "As will Athos. But you will both be fine. I promise." He pulled her into his arms and held her close. Lowering his mouth to her ear, he whispered, "You're a brave, beautiful woman, Charlotte. The day Athos met you was the luckiest day of his life."

"Aramis, I can't lose him. I can't." The agony in her voice cut Aramis to the quick, and he brushed away the tears trailing down her face with his thumb, cupping her face in his hand.

"All will be well. Athos is too stubborn to die," he said softly. "Especially when he has you to live for."

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Five minutes later, the group was standing behind the guard as he worked to open the cell. Moving slowly, he fumbled with the key in the lock.

"Come on, we haven't got all day!" d'Artagnan, seething with frustration, pushed the man out of the way and turned the key. As the door swung open, the musketeer's heart dropped when he saw his mentor lying on the floor. Athos' features were barely recognizable. In the time Charlotte had been gone, his eyes had swollen shut, and grotesque bruises had begun to appear on his face. He was deathly pale, and dried blood coated his forehead. His clothes, like Charlotte's, were filthy and torn. D'Artagnan shivered, thinking that the body in front of him reminded of the vagrants he often saw lying in the alleys near the seedier taverns.

"Athos!" his panicked voice reverberated in the cell, and he rushed to the side of his friend.

Aramis was beside him in an instant, staying his arm. "Gently, d'Artagnan," he cautioned, keeping his voice low. "We don't know what injuries he may have sustained. Give me a moment to assess him."

He sensed Charlotte behind him, and turned to her, full of determination. "He's alive and breathing—and I intend to keep him that way." She squeezed his arm in gratitude, then reached for Athos' hand, making sure to give Aramis room to work. Kissing his palm, she leaned down to his ear, smoothing some of the matted hair back from his face. "Athos. It's Charlotte. We are safe now—Captain Treville, Porthos, Aramis, d'Artagnan—they're all here-and I promise that Aramis and I will not leave your side until you are well."

Hearing her words, d'Artagnan blinked back tears. Of their tight-knit group, he knew Charlotte the least, having met her only in passing. But the love radiating from her voice touched his heart—and reminded him of Constance. Her husband had been out of town since the day after New Year's, and she had yet to tell him that she had come to a decision to leave. D'Artagnan feared that the longer she waited, the more difficult it would be for her. He shook his head, willing away the vision of her that had appeared in his mind, and focused instead on helping Aramis in any way he could.

Aramis ran his hands lightly over his friend's body, probing for any fractures. He then turned his attention to the head wound, and frowned. "I think he has a badly bruised rib, but that will heal with time. The blow to the skull is definitely his most severe injury. We will need a stretcher, Captain."

Treville nodded, and barked out an order to the guard. "Get us a **clean **stretcher from the infirmary—and be quick about it!" As the guard scurried away, Treville pulled Aramis to the side as Porthos knelt next to Charlotte, placing a comforting arm around her.

"What are his chances?" he muttered. The medic looked away for an instant, then met his Captain's eyes with an honest, direct gaze. "I don't know. These sort of injuries are very unpredictable. Only time will tell."

"Can you not glean any information by his breathing? His response to touch? Anything?" Treville's voice was desperate.

Aramis shook his head regretfully, running a hand through his dark hair and sighing heavily. "It is impossible to say. He seems to have some minimal response to touch, but perhaps I am imagining it."

The anguish in his words was unmistakable, and Treville felt guilty for pressing him. He placed his hand on the man's shoulder in an attempt to reassure him. "You're doing your best, Aramis. And having you to tend to him is a huge point in his favour."

"And I have the advantage of having an apothecary by my side. How can we fail?" he glanced up at Treville, his manner sober and thoughtful. "Captain, Athos is **so** close to conquering his demons and finally finding happiness. Charlotte has done wonders for him in a short period of time. He is actually at peace. I cannot allow him to miss a chance at redemption."

Treville nodded in understanding, then gazed at Charlotte, who was obviously exhausted, both physically and mentally. "She needs food, a bath, and rest."

Aramis shook his head. "She will likely deny everything in order to stay by his side."

"Well," said Treville with a sigh. "Then we will have to accommodate her. There is an area for bathing in the infirmary."

"No." Aramis' voice was adamant. "Athos **hates** the infirmary. He needs to be in a place where he be surrounded by what is familiar. We will take him to his quarters and tend to him there. We can set up a screen in the alcove by the fire, and Charlotte can bathe there in complete privacy."

"Very well," agreed Treville. "Can you see to the arrangements? I need to report back to the King. He must be made aware of the abuses that are being perpetrated in this hellhole."

The marksman nodded, and as the guard brought in the stretcher and some blankets, Athos was prepared for the ride back to the garrison.

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It was full dark when the wagon Athos lay in rolled into the garrison, and the atmosphere was somber. The temperature had dropped to below freezing, and snow was now falling, dusting everything in sight with a ghostly layer of white.

Charlotte had insisted on riding with Athos despite Treville's attempt to coax her to accept a means of journeying more comfortably. The ride had been rough, but she had spent it making sure he was warm. Athos was covered in blankets, with one even tucked around his head to prevent significant heat loss. Unable to keep still, she had kept herself busy by regularly checking his pulse and respirations, and adjusting the blankets as needed. By the end of the journey, her fingers had traced over every inch of his face, trying to recall the ruggedly handsome features that had once graced the battered countenance in front of her.

Although she wanted to give way to emotion, Charlotte held herself in check, searching for the means to stay calm. _I must be strong, Athos needs to hear a comforting, loving voice, not one that is despondent or anxious. I will make sure my touch is gentle, and my words encouraging. He **must** get well_. The spectre of the trial was still lurking at the back of her brain, but she refused to acknowledge it. _I cannot think about that now. My only focus must be on healing his body and his spirit._

The wagon finally ground to a halt, and d'Artagnan, Porthos, and Aramis slid the stretcher out with care, gratefully accepting aid from one of the larger stable lads. With Charlotte following behind them, they carried Athos to his quarters, and laid him on the floor, hesitant to put him on the bed until he had been bathed.

D'Artagnan went immediately to the hearth to start a fire, while Porthos fetched a basin and some water to heat over the fire. When he returned to the room with the water, Porthos caught sight of Charlotte's ruined gown. Athos had carefully folded it and set it on top of a chest that sat in the corner. _That's odd_, he thought. _I wonder why he kept it—that dress is fit only for the rag pile now. _He recalled the night he and Athos had desperately worked to treat Charlotte's hypothermia, and shivered at the thought that they were now all working to save his friend.

As the fire came to life, the room began to slowly warm. Charlotte knelt by Athos' side, and looked up at Aramis. "We need to get him bathed, and into clean clothes."

The musketeer laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, then drew her to her feet. "Perhaps you should go to the kitchen. Serge is waiting to feed you."

"But-"

"Charlotte." Aramis tenderly took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead. "He is our brother. Let us do this for him, then we will turn him over to you. But first, I must tend to your wounds."

He ministered to her quietly, cleansing the skin that had been rubbed raw, giving careful attention to the areas which showed signs of infection. When he was finished, he pressed a small bottle of salve into her hand. "Before you go to sleep, put this on the affected areas. I would leave the wounds open to the air tonight, but I shall bandage them tomorrow morning."

As she looked at the three men, Charlotte saw the pain and worry that was so evident on their faces, and gave Aramis a brave smile. "Thank you. I didn't realize how tired I was. Food would be welcome."

"Come on," said Porthos, putting his black hat on. "I'll walk you down. This garrison is full of shady characters, you know. Can't have a lady walkin' around at night by herself." He winked at Charlotte, and she gave him a smile, grateful for his attempt at lightening the mood.

He led her through the snow, which was now falling fast and thick, to the kitchen. Serge had a fire blazing, and the soft glow of candlelight came from the table, which was set for one. "Don't worry, I promise we'll come get you if there's any change," said Porthos comfortingly, wrapping his arms around her in a hug before leaving.

As she sat down to eat, the meal that Serge had prepared served to awaken the appetite that had been banished by the food in the Chatelet. The cook smiled approvingly when she asked for a second bowl of the delicious chicken soup, and by the time she had finished, her mood had turned more optimistic. As she climbed the stairs back to Athos' quarters, the snow now seemed fresh and new, and the courtyard no longer looked barren and haunted.

When she knocked lightly on the door, the soft glow of the fire beckoned through the window. D'Artagnan ushered her into the room, and the expression on his face immediately set her mind at ease. He appeared tired, but calm. "He's been bathed and has a fresh set of clothes on. Come see." Taking her arm, he led her to the bed.

She sank to her knees, despairing at how poorly he still looked, despite the blood and grime having been washed away. His colour was ashen, and he remained unconscious, breathing in a shallow, irregular pattern.

Looking up at d'Artagnan, she said wistfully, "All I want to do is touch him, but seeing him so clean makes me realize how truly dirty I am right now."

"Funny you should mention that." Aramis' cheerful voice came from behind her as he placed his hands on her shoulders. "We need to eat, and you need some privacy." Taking her hand, he helped her to her feet.

"There is a large tub behind that screen—" Aramis indicated a large folding screen that had been set up to block off a corner near the fire, "-that happens to be filled to the brim with steaming water. A new bar of soap and the fluffiest towel we could find are sitting on the washstand, and some clothes are on the chair next to it…along with a large glass of the Captain's best wine." He leaned over and whispered to her conspiratorially, "Don't tell him I nicked a bottle."

"Thank you." Her voice was weary, but full of appreciation for how hard these wonderful men had worked to make her and Athos comfortable. Once the door shut behind them, she checked on Athos, then slipped behind the screen and shed her clothes, tossing them with disgust into the corner.

The sensation of a warm bath was blissful. Aramis had indeed thought of everything-a vial of lavender oil was sitting next to the tub. Charlotte added it to the water, feeling the tension dissolve from her muscles as she breathed in the calming fragrance. She washed her hair thoroughly twice, then scrubbed her skin until it was pink and glowing. Sipping the glass of wine, she allowed herself a few minutes to relax in the water until it became tepid. Stepping out of the bath, she dried off and wrapped herself in the towel, then went to inspect the clothes that had been left out for her.

On top of the neat pile was a simple white nightgown, trimmed with a bit of lace at the wrists and throat. A dark green robe made of warm, soft wool was underneath it. The colour complimented her hair perfectly, and Charlotte smiled in spite of herself. _You do have good taste, Aramis—I'll give you that._

Dressing and finishing the glass of wine, she took the candle that had sat by the bath and padded over to Athos. Comforted by the glow from the fire, she blew out the candle, and sat on the edge of the bed. She stroked his cheek softly, then laid down, settling against him so that she could put her ear against his chest and hear the reassuring thump of his heartbeat. Within seconds, she was asleep, but her slumber was anything but restful.

**Thank you to the guest reviewer whom I couldn't thank personally-you made me very happy! **

**Next time...the vigil continues, and fears mount as Athos remains unconscious.**


	46. Chapter 46

**Chapter XLVI...in which the vigil continues, and Charlotte experiences doubts about the strength of Athos' connection with her.**

**CHAPTER XLVI**

Charlotte was awakened in the hour before dawn by Athos tossing restlessly in his sleep. She placed her palm on his chest, and spoke to him softly. "Athos, you are safe. I am with you in your quarters. Aramis has treated your injuries, and your body is healing. Rest now."

He quieted a bit, then appeared to be struggling to speak. Sitting up, she took his hand in hers. "Do not try to talk, my love. You are still very weak. Be at peace, for you have done your duty, and we all want you to sleep and get well." She leaned over and brushed her lips against his just for a second, afraid to inadvertently cause him pain by touching his battered face.

Athos seemed to be trying to open his eyes, but the degree of swelling around them made that impossible. He groaned in pain, then managed to get one word out in the faintest of whispers. Charlotte leaned over to catch it, then immediately wished she had not.

_"Anne."_

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It was early morning, and the inhabitants of the garrison were just beginning to stir. Aramis knocked softly on Athos' door, then opened it and slipped into the room. He was met by the sight of Charlotte sitting in the bed next to Athos, her back against the wall. She had one of his hands in both of her own, and was gently running her fingers back and forth across his palm. Despite the soothing nature of her gesture, she was obviously upset, and seemed oblivious to the fact that he had entered the room.

Aramis saw immediately that Athos' colour had improved, and he was breathing regularly. Those were both good signs, and he would have expected Charlotte to be relieved and happy. However, she appeared more distracted and uneasy than she had the previous night, when Athos' condition had been much more serious. _Something has happened,_ he thought, and approached the bed.

"Good morning," he murmured quietly, leaning over to give her a kiss on the cheek, then taking a seat on the chair beside the bed. "Did you get any sleep at all? You look exhausted."

She turned her eyes to his, and he could see she was deeply troubled. "Yes, I slept a bit, but Aramis-" she swallowed, and tried to go on, but had to stop for a moment to compose herself. "He spoke to me about an hour ago."

He beamed a brilliant smile at her, hoping to infuse hope into her soul. _Perhaps she is just overwhelmed by all that has happened_. "That's fantastic! What did he say?"

"Not what I wanted to hear," she said simply, misery apparent in her voice. "He said one word- Anne."

A sinking feeling descended upon Aramis, and he pinched the bridge of his nose, slowly exhaling. _Milady was a demon—she had to be_. It was unfathomable to him how Athos could hold himself prisoner to her memory after everything she had done to him and Thomas. A small part of his brain held very tightly onto the happy memories he had of her, and those thoughts tended to resurface at times of complete inebriation—or when he became feverish, and his reason was impaired. _It is the same thing now_, Aramis thought. _His mind has been affected by the blow he took to the head._

"We cannot talk about it here," she whispered, indicating Athos. "But—I just wonder-will it always be like this?" The anguish on her face touched Aramis' heart.

Just then, a knock came on the door, and Treville stepped in. "How is he?" he asked in a low voice. "A bit better," replied Aramis slowly. "His colour is improved, and his pulse and respirations are strong and even."

"Thank God." Treville sighed in relief. His keen eyes then noted Charlotte's listless manner. She was staring out the small window opposite Athos' bed, and seemed stunned. He raised an eyebrow inquiringly at Aramis.

"She is emotionally spent," muttered Aramis. "Athos woke for a moment, and spoke Milady's name."

"I see." Treville understood at once how devastating that would have been for Charlotte to hear. He glanced over at her again, and murmured, "Maybe you should take her out of the garrison for breakfast—perhaps to the inn at the edge of the marketplace? Just for a change of scenery. If there is any shift in his condition, I can send a runner and you can be back here within 5 minutes. I think she needs to get away for a bit."

"I agree," responded Aramis in a low voice, looking soberly at his Captain. "Would you –"

It was not necessary for him to finish the sentence, as Treville immediately answered him. "Of course. I will stay with him until you get back."

"Thank you." Aramis placed his hand on the Captain's shoulder. "Perhaps if you talked to him it would help….remind him of what he has to live for."

The musketeer's choice of words made Treville uneasy. "Is it—" he hesitated, then plunged on, "—usual for someone to be unconscious this long? It has been over 12 hours."

"There is no usual with head injuries," replied Aramis with a sigh. "Just as every person has a unique personality, each brain responds differently to injury. Athos is a man of few words—perhaps this is how his brain heals itself. If it were me—"he gave the Captain a rueful smile, a bit of his natural cheekiness reappearing, "—you would probably have to gag me, because I would be talking nonstop."

Treville was silent, then nodded. "You are probably right," he said, attempting to make his voice sound confident, but not quite achieving the tone he had been aiming for.

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Thirty minutes later, Charlotte walked out of the garrison on Aramis' arm. She resisted the urge to look back for several minutes, trying to remain attentive to the lively story the musketeer was telling her. She was only half listening, but had heard enough to know it involved Athos, a keg of brandy, and a wild boar. However, once they reached the edge of the market square, she quickly looked back over her shoulder for a last glimpse of the garrison, anxious to ensure one last time that they were not being summoned.

"He will be fine," said Aramis softly.

"Was I that obvious?" asked Charlotte apologetically. "I'm sorry. Go on— what did Athos shout at the boar?"

"You were not listening, my dear, and now you have lost the thread of the story," Aramis reproved her, and threw up his hands. "The punch line is no good now. I will relate it to you again from the beginning when Athos is awake. It is much better in the telling when you get to see him squirming in embarrassment along with the description of the events." He grinned at her, and she suddenly stopped and faced him.

"Aramis, you would tell me the truth, wouldn't you? If you thought Athos' situation was-hopeless, you would—prepare me?"

He took her hands in his, his brown eyes honest and open. "Yes, I would. I would never lie to you."

She gave him a wan smile. "I did not think so, but I needed to hear it."

Aramis tucked her left hand under his arm again, and slyly returned her smile. "Although Athos may think he is in heaven when he wakes up if he finds you in bed with him."

"Well, he thought he was in hell the first time I met him, so at least I would be on the side of the angels this time," she observed dryly, the anxiety in her face lessening a bit as Aramis chuckled.

"Come on," he said, readjusting his hat as the wind picked up. "I am starving, and the White Dove has some of the best sausage and bread you will ever taste."

A short time later, they were seated at a small table at the rear of the inn's main room. Aramis had ordered coffee, and had been taken aback when Charlotte had requested wine. "A bit early, isn't it?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. "I think Athos is rubbing off on you."

"My days and nights are mixed up," Charlotte answered, her voice dull as the serving girl poured her a goblet of what appeared to be a ruby red burgundy. "At the Chatelet, we were awake much of the night…and I slept very poorly when we returned to the garrison. I was thinking a glass of wine might help me. Perhaps I can nap a bit with Athos when we get back." She lifted the goblet to her lips and drank deeply, then set it down.

"Talk to me, Charlotte," murmured Aramis, taking her hand. "I know Athos mentioning Anne's name upset you."

Charlotte gazed pensively out the small glass window next to her, watching families scurry by. Children romped in the snow, playing and teasing each other as their mothers admonished them. Turning back to Aramis, she asked him a question he found difficult to answer.

"Do you believe he is over her?"

"You have spent quite a bit of time with him over the past two weeks. What do you think?" he inquired gently.

She traced the grooves and scratches in the table with the fingers of her free hand, staring wistfully at the wood. "I think that perhaps Athos was once like me—trusting, and full of the joy of new love. I am sure the Captain told you that Milady is somehow involved with Michel, and was there at the shop when the police inspector came to arrest us."

Swallowing, Charlotte looked up, her eyes misting. "Aramis, I am not blind. She is a gorgeous woman, and she is incredibly seductive. I could actually **feel** the connection between her and Athos sparking when she touched him, and again when she was taunting him by reminding him of the love they had shared. Then he wakes up for an instant this morning, and her name is the first one on his lips. What would you think?"

Aramis leaned over the table and spoke to her earnestly. "Listen to me, Charlotte. You have no idea what was the context of him uttering her name. Maybe a part of his brain was attempting to warn you about her—or perhaps he was reliving the pain of her betrayal."

She laughed bitterly, and her eyes wandered to the window again, idly watching a vegetable vendor set up his stall for business. "I was so defiant that day—I told her Athos had gotten over her, because I loved him unconditionally. But maybe that is not enough. Maybe he is so deeply scarred that he can never truly let another person into his heart."

Aramis was silent for a moment, then fixed his eyes on hers. "Or maybe you will show him the kind of love he never experienced with Milady…the kind of love where there is not only passion, but a deep emotional bond that unites two souls for life. I have seen him look at you, Charlotte. I would guess that his desire and need for you comes from much more than just the physical—although I do not discount that as a major factor." He smirked, knowing it would trigger the lovely pink blush that arose on her cheeks whenever Athos teased her.

"You are an intoxicating blend of intelligence, generosity, and humour—and Athos is finding you much more addictive than the wine he is so fond of. That is because you bring him peace, while simultaneously igniting that latent part of his brain that longs to love a woman in the way she should be loved-deeply, passionately, and joyfully."

A brilliant grin then appeared on his face. "I cannot tell you how lovely it is for those of us who have been with him at his darkest to see how he lights up when you are with him. Although I have to admit, Porthos and I do so love ribbing him about the boyish little smile he gives you when he looks at you. So do not lose heart. When he wakes up properly, you will see…yours will be the first voice he will want to hear."

Charlotte squeezed his hand affectionately. "Thank you, Aramis—for everything. Getting out for a bit was probably a good idea. Hopefully by the time I get back, my optimism will be firmly in place."

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When they finished their meal and returned to the garrison, Charlotte's heart did indeed feel lighter. Athos had rested well while they had been gone. However, the swelling around his eyes was still significant. Aramis applied a cold compress, hoping to ease it a bit. He then turned his attention to Charlotte's wounds, and dressed them. The wind had started to blow more fiercely, and it seemed as if snow was likely to fall again.

"Why don't you rest a bit with him?" murmured Aramis. "You need to get more sleep."

Charlotte was about to contradict him when she realized how bone-tired she was. "That sounds like a very good idea," she replied sleepily, then slid into bed, wrapping an arm gingerly around Athos. Before Aramis had even left the room, she was fast asleep, her breathing perfectly in sync with that of Athos.

Several hours later, she awoke. Athos had shifted, and seemed to be regaining consciousness. He was resting with his hand on his chest, and Charlotte instinctively reached over to place her hand on his to soothe him.

His dry, cracked lips seemed to be struggling to form words, and she saw a single tear run down his cheek. As she gently brushed it away, he finally spoke, his voice so hoarse that it was almost impossible to identify the rich, magnetic notes that had hypnotized her previously.

"I would recognize that touch anywhere." He coughed to clear his throat, then breathed, "Charlotte."

In that moment, her heart was so full that she could respond in no other way than by leaning over and giving him a sweet, gentle kiss.

"Athos. Thank God you have come back to me."

**Next time-the reunion continues.**

T**hank you again for brightening my day with your comments! I regret that I cannot thank the guest reviewers personally, but know that your words are much appreciated!**


	47. Chapter 47

**Chapter XLVII...in which I fulfill the multiple requests for cuddle time for Athos and Charlotte (Questfan, 302pilot, and DarkDivine131, this one's for you!), and Porthos becomes concerned about Madeleine.**

**CHAPTER XLVII**

"Was I gone for a long time? What happened?" Athos asked hoarsely. "It feels as if I lost rather badly in a fight against a large wild animal."

"Funny you should mention that," Charlotte said lightly. "Aramis had just started telling me a story earlier about you, a boar, and a certain keg of fine brandy. Here, have a sip of water. You must be parched." Helping him lean forward slightly, she put cup of water to his lips, and he gratefully drank a bit, then groaned as she helped him settle back.

"Don't believe a word Aramis says. A simple little incident has been embellished over time to become a tale analogous to St. George slaying the dragon. Now tell me what I did to deserve this. My head feels like it is twice its size, and I cannot even open my eyes."

"All in good time. Just know that you were my knight in shining armour." Unable to help herself, she kissed him again. As her lips touched his, she felt him respond, and a thrill went through her body as she sensed the raw desire that had ignited within him. She drew away for an instant, and whispered, "Athos, you are still very weak. We shouldn't—"

"Charlotte-I need you," he rasped, blindly reaching for her. "I cannot see your face, and my whole body hurts like hell. Please-just make me forget for a moment."

"How can I refuse such a request?" she murmured with a smile. Lying down next to him, she traced her finger along his lips as she guided once of his hands to rest against her cheek. Cupping her face, he drew her to his mouth, and she soon forgot any reservations she had had. The pleasure of having him next to her again in this way was overwhelming. His hands, strong yet gentle, roamed restlessly over her, as he relied on his sense of touch to rediscover her body. Despite his weakened state, there was an unmistakable passion in his kiss that left her lightheaded.

"You smell amazing," he muttered when he finally broke away for an instant. "What is that scent?"

"It's probably the lavender oil," Charlotte replied, her thoughts elsewhere. She was running her fingers along his jawline, revelling in the sensation of the pleasantly rough scrape of his beard against her skin.

"So you discovered my secret stash," he said dryly. She laughed softly, overjoyed at hearing the wit she loved resurfacing.

"Actually, Aramis set up a bath for me behind a screen in the corner. It was very romantic, Athos. Candles, soap, fluffy towel, lavender oil…you might learn a thing or two from him."

"Are you saying I have no concept of how to romance a woman?" he challenged her.

"Oh, a bit defensive, are we?" she teased. "All I was saying was that you might pick up some pointers from him. He obviously knows how to treat a lady."

"As do I," responded Athos, running a hand through her hair. "And just as soon as I can get up from this bed, I am going to prove it to you."

"Would it actually require leaving the bed?" inquired Charlotte innocently. "I would think a real expert would be able to use his talents in whatever setting he would find himself in."

He chuckled as he continued to stroke her hair. "I said nothing about leaving the bed, my love. I only said I would have to have the capacity to get up. There is no way I could perform at my best in this state, so you will just have to content yourself with waiting."

"I shall do my best to be patient," Charlotte replied, a smile appearing on her face. "For now, though, you **are** somewhat defenceless," she observed coyly. "I could easily use my feminine wiles on you to make you my slave for life, but perhaps I shall show mercy on you and offer you something a bit more—comforting-in your current state." Sliding off the bed, she retrieved the vial of lavender oil and knelt next to the bed.

"Do you think you could get your shirt off if I helped you?"

"To what purpose, may I inquire? Although I must admit your proposal intrigues me."

"I was thinking that a massage might do you a world of good—especially if I use some of the lavender oil. It's very soothing, and it promotes sleep."

His raised his head defiantly. "Massage yes—lavender oil, no."

"You just told me I smelled amazing!" she retorted.

"Yes, amazing for a beautiful woman—not a musketeer. If I showed up for muster graced with that scent, I would be laughed out of formation."

"Well, luckily for you, you will not be reporting for muster anytime in the near future," replied Charlotte calmly. "So I shall give you a choice-either you do it my way, or I will have Porthos give you the massage—and I doubt his hands would make you feel quite as good as mine. At least, I hope they wouldn't."

"You are safe in assuming that I would prefer you to minister to me," he replied wryly, then sighed. "Very well. As I am at your mercy, as you were so quick to point out, I have no other choice than to comply."

"Good boy," she said in an approving tone. "Now let's get your shirt off."

With a bit of maneuvering and careful attention on the part of Charlotte, they were able to ease the shirt off without causing Athos too much pain. She then gingerly helped him to roll over. He stifled a moan as he came to rest on his belly, and his face turned pale.

"I am sorry," she whispered, kissing his neck. "I hate to cause you pain."

"It is fine," he said huskily. "I have felt much worse. Plus, now you are compelled to make it up to me."

Charlotte smiled, and poured a bit of the oil onto her hands, rubbing them together to warm it up. "It will be my pleasure."

As she placed her hands on his shoulder blades and began to gently spread the warm oil over his skin, she laughed softly. "This reminds me of our first meeting. I remember thinking—in the manner of a healer, of course, strictly professional-that your body was much more appealing than most of those I get to see in the course of my work."

"You have me at a disadvantage, as I have not had the pleasure of surveying you in the same position," he answered archly, his voice mellowing and regaining some its natural timbre as his muscles began to relax. "But I must say that I recall wondering at the time what it would be like to have your soft hands touch me in a way that was other than professional."

She stopped, her eyes crinkling in amusement. "You did not! And I thought you were such a gentleman. My image of you has now been irrevocably altered."

"I **was** a gentleman. I did not verbalize my feelings or betray at all that I was-taken with you."

"With me, or my hands?" she inquired impishly, beginning to work out the knots in his muscles.

"Both." He sighed in bliss as she continued. "Can you just-keep on doing that indefinitely? I have changed my mind about the oil—feel free to use it until the bottle is empty."

"Is that your way of telling me I was right?" Charlotte asked, smiling to herself.

"Mmmmmmm," was the only reply she got, as he drifted into a peaceful sleep, surer than ever that this woman was meant to heal him not only in body, but is spirit.

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Porthos strode across the courtyard, intending to head for the stables to check on his horse. The stallion had been favouring one of his hind legs a bit yesterday, and he had asked the stable lads to apply a poultice last night and again this morning. However, he stopped when he saw a small girl sitting patiently on the bench outside the kitchen, a basket in her hands.

"Good morning, Mademoiselle Madeleine," he said formally, taking off his hat and bowing to her. She giggled, pleased that he was treating her as a he would a fine lady.

"Good morning, Porthos."

"What are you doin' sittin' out 'ere in the cold?"

"It's not that cold," she replied in a sunny voice. "At home, I play outside all the time, even when it is chilly. I don't like staying indoors all day. I asked Serge if I could feed the chickens, and he had me gather up all the scraps from the meal earlier. Once he is done cleaning, he is going to take me to the chicken coop. And if I do a good job of it, he promised I can collect the eggs tomorrow!" Her eyes shone with delight at the prospect of hunting for eggs in the morning.

Porthos smiled. _If only we all could take pleasure from the simple things in life_, he thought. Sitting down companionably next to her, he looked thoughtful. "That's a big responsibility. Serge must think you are quite a little girl to trust you with his chickens. He doesn't let just anybody mess with them. If you like, I can take you there now. Being a city boy, I can't claim to be a chicken expert, but I know where to find the coop."

"Would you?" Madeleine exclaimed, thrilled at the thought of not having to wait any longer.

"No problem." He stood up and pushed the door to the kitchen ajar, then whistled loudly. "Oi, Serge! If it's okay with you, I'll take your little helper over to the chickens and let 'er get acquainted with them. She's nearly wrigglin' with anticipation."

Serge waved at him and called, "Thanks, mate."

Closing the door, he put on his hat and turned to Madeleine. "Looks like we have a date with some chickens," he said with a wink. As Madeleine beamed up at him, Porthos took her hand and led her to the chicken coop, the little girl skipping across the courtyard as she told him all about her menagerie at home.

Porthos found himself enjoying her chatter. She obviously loved animals, and felt at ease in his company. Children outside the Court of Miracles tended to be wary of him due to his dark skin, which was rare in Paris except for in the more squalid areas. His mixed race and menacing appearance when he was kitted out in his leather often made little ones cower when he approached.

This broke Porthos' heart, because he was very fond of children, and had quite a gift for relating to them. Growing up in the Court, the other boys had often made fun of him because he always made time to play with those much younger than him. The children under five especially would often surround him when he appeared, begging for attention. But Porthos had not cared when his peers had laughed at him. The joy he got from making a five year old laugh or from teaching a three year old to throw a ball made him feel as if he was giving those children a brief moment of experiencing a real childhood—not the despair they were subjected to day after day in the grinding poverty of the Court of Miracles.

_I wonder if I will ever get to be a father,_ he mused pensively. Other than Flea and Alice, Porthos had never had any relationships that lasted beyond a night or two. It was not that women did not find him attractive. Quite the contrary, his affectionate, gentle manner had broken more than a few hearts. However, parents usually took one look at his dark skin and forbade their daughters from associating with a servant playing at being a musketeer.

Each time this happened, it hurt more than he ever let on. He never told his friends the real reason why the women they saw him with once or twice never appeared again, usually making a joke that they had tired of his ugly face. He suspected Aramis guessed at the truth, but Porthos had been loath to broach the topic with him. For the big man, watching d'Artagnan romance Constance and seeing Anne's obvious adoration for Aramis had been difficult, as he longed to have someone to cherish. _And even though Athos has been tortured by Milady time and again_, he thought, _he obviously once shared a deep love with her_.

"What are their names?" Madeleine's eager voice broke him out of his reverie.

"Whose?" he asked, confused.

"The chickens, silly! They are all such different colours, and look how they act—they all have different personalities. That black one over there is the stingy type—she's guarding that crust of bread as if she'd rather die than share it. And look at the speckled one—she is like an old grandma, ready to fall asleep in the corner."

Porthos scratched his head absently, and stared at the chickens. "Erm—they all just look like chickens to me. I doubt anyone has named them. Serge isn't the type to name animals that produce food. Horses, yes. Chickens, no."

"Well, " she said thoughtfully, setting down the basket by the gate to the enclosure. "I'll just have to come up with names for them, then. It'll be easy. Hmm, I'll call the speckled one Grandmere, to start." The chickens, sensing that lunch was on the way, began to congregate at the gate, squawking loudly. Porthos was a bit nonplussed by the noise, but Madeleine confidently unlatched the gate and walked straight into the teeming chaos, alternating crooning to some birds and remonstrating with others.

As she began to toss the scraps out, the chickens scattered, and were soon contentedly pecking the odd and ends from the kitchen. Madeleine picked up her basket and exited the gate, latching it shut.

"You've got quite a hand with chickens," Porthos said admiringly. "You weren't scared at all, even with all that racket. And they actually seemed to listen to you. You're a brave girl."

She smiled, but a shadow then crossed her face. "Not all the time." Looking down, she scuffed the ground with her boot, digging up a layer of dirt under the fresh snow. "Porthos, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, anythin'."

Her voice was tentative, and so soft that Porthos had to stoop down to hear what she was saying. "Are you ever scared?"

Squatting down so he could look her in the eye, he said honestly, "That's an easy question. Yes. I've been scared many, many times."

"But you're so big—and strong," Madeleine faltered. "What do you have to be afraid of?"

"We all have our fears, Madeleine. Some live in our minds, and others appear right in front of us in the heat of battle. It's okay to be scared, as long as you keeping thinkin'. Never freeze up—your brain has to keep workin', to make you believe you can get out of whatever situation you are in, no matter how bad it looks."

"What if you are little, like me? I can't fight a battle, or look at someone to make him scared. If someone wanted to hurt my mother, there would be nothing I could do to save her."

Porthos drew in a deep breath, and forced himself to remain calm. He had had an experience with a five year old boy in the Court of Miracles starting out a conversation like this with him, only to break into tears and tell Porthos that one of the older boys had been beating him on a daily basis. The twelve year old perpetrator was large for his age, and had a sadistic streak that turned Porthos' stomach. Porthos had been fourteen at the time, and he had lost no time in finding the culprit and beating him senseless.

"Madeleine, I know the city is sometimes overwhelmin' when you are used to living in a small village, but you have many friends here…Serge, the Captain, d'Artagnan, Aramis, Athos. If anyone ever threatens-or has made threats- against you or your mother, you need to come to me straightaway, and I'll make it right."

The indecision on her face told Porthos that his intuition had been correct. While every fibre in his being wanted to press her, he knew that would only cause her to withdraw. _I'll speak to Denise later—and make sure I take advantage of every opportunity to spend time with Madeleine, because someone has scared her badly._

"Deal?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Well then, you have to pinkie promise me." Porthos held up his little finger, and Madeleine laughed as she tried to wrap her delicate little finger around his. "Thank you, Porthos." She hugged him tightly, and the big man wrapped his arms around her, vowing to protect this beautiful child against whomever or whatever had caused her to be so frightened.

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As Charlotte finished Athos' massage, she found herself unable to take her hands off him. She lightly ran her fingers over the slope of his back, and wondered how much time they had left together. Treville had informed her that the King would be hearing the case against them personally, and the thought of having to stand in front of the monarch caused even her considerable courage to quail. _I must remember that we are innocent, and surely justice will prevail. The thought of never getting a chance to make love to Athos and to live by his side as his wife-I cannot bear it._

Although Athos had not spoken of marriage, she sensed that it was a matter of time._ I wonder if I can ever measure up to Milady when we become intimate._ After a second glass of wine at the inn earlier, she had voiced her reservations to Aramis, blushing furiously. She knew that the alcohol had reduced her inhibitions, as she would never have asked that question of him were she completely sober. However, she had had the overwhelming urge to hear his thoughts on the matter, knowing that he could speak from experience, and would be honest with her.

To his credit, Aramis had neither teased, nor lectured her for bringing up a topic that was unfit for conversation. Rather, he had been silent for a moment, then said with care, "Charlotte, men are not the most complex of creatures. Any woman can learn to satisfy a man physically. The fact that you would even ask me this question, albeit under the influence of wine, tells me you are not constrained by the traditional inhibitions that are placed upon women by society. More importantly, you love Athos wholeheartedly. You already know how to pleasure him in the small moments of daily life with your gentleness and humour, and that is something Milady can never hope to learn. I suspect that neither you nor he will be prepared for how amazing the experience of making love to each other will be."

She flushed as she thought of that conversation now. Stroking Athos' back, she brushed her lips against his spine and settled against him, praying that their lives would be preserved so they could both have a chance at the happiness that had eluded them.

**Many thanks for the new follows/reviews! It amazes me that two months and 100K words later, people are still finding this fanfic and having the courage to tackle 40+ chapters! Much love to the reviewer from Germany-and yes, Charlotte and Athos were christened some time ago with the ship name Charthos by the lovely Boooyakasha, who entered the Musketeer FF writing community roughly around the same time I did, and loves to whump Athos as much as I do!**

**Next time...Athos and Aramis have a difference of opinion, and Constagnan returns...**


	48. Chapter 48

**Chapter XLVIII...in which Aramis gives Athos relationship advice, and Porthos and Aramis work with Treville to come up with a strategy to exonerate Athos and Charlotte.**

**CHAPTER XLVIII**

When Aramis knocked later that day on Athos' door, he was pleased to hear a brief burst of laughter before a familiar voice called, "Come in!" Opening the door, he was greeted with the sight of Charlotte, her face pink, trying to wriggle out of Athos' arms as he traced her hairline with his lips.

"Well, Athos, I see you are much improved," observed Aramis slyly, coming over to the bed. "Obviously Mademoiselle Charlotte is a miracle tonic."

"But she is a very cruel nurse, Aramis. Please find me another who is a little more—accommodating."

"Athos, stop!" Charlotte begged him, giggling again as he moved on to nuzzle her neck. "Have you no shame? Right in front of Aramis!"

"Maybe **he** can pick up some pointers," murmured Athos lazily, continuing on with his languid exploration of her skin.

"In your dreams, Athos," retorted Aramis, as he gave Charlotte a cheeky wink. "I have already taught you everything I know. It is not my fault if your tactical deployment of said knowledge is not up to my level of expertise. Perhaps you should allow Charlotte an hour with me-"

"Stop right there," called out Athos in mock outrage. "If I could see properly, I would challenge you to swords right now, and I would show no mercy."

"That is merely a fantasy, my friend, as you can't actually do that right now, can you?" Aramis slid into the chair next to the bed and leaned back, relieved that they had seamlessly resumed their easy banter. "So stop making idle threats and release your charming nurse."

"Very well," Athos frowned in a way that could have been construed as grumpy if the rest of his face had been able to go along with it, and disengaged himself reluctantly from Charlotte. "But I reserve the right to keep her within arm's reach until you vacate the premises. I cannot have you poaching the woman I cherish under pretence of coming to check on my condition."

Aramis held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "On my honour, I will allow her to pass unmolested."

Athos feigned a sigh of relief, and relaxed into his pillow, as Charlotte stood up. The chain she wore with the signet ring had slipped out of her bodice in her mock struggle with Athos, and Aramis' sharp eyes noted it at once.

"I am going to run down to the kitchen and see if Serge has the soup ready. Behave yourself while I am gone," she instructed Athos with a smile, kissing him tenderly before leaving.

As the door closed behind her, Aramis turned to Athos with a grin. "Marking your territory, eh? I see she is wearing the la Fére signet ring."

"I gave it to her to keep in case she needed a quick escape, and a place to find refuge," said Athos neutrally. "It has nothing to do with any claim or pledge, real or imagined."

"Athos." Aramis' voice was reproachful. "I really hope you are just being evasive, because if you let that girl slip away, you will regret it forever."

His friend sighed, and slipped an arm behind his head. "Aramis, I adore her. You know that. But we are talking like I have a future. Porthos broke the news to me about the trial when he stopped by earlier. The thought of the King hearing the case and seeing the "evidence" that has been gathered makes me very uneasy. For all we know, I could be swinging at the end of a rope several days hence."

"And for all we know, you could be standing in front of a priest, exchanging the sacred vows of holy matrimony with Charlotte," Aramis retorted evenly. "Do I get to be best man, by the way?"

"Not if I have anything to say about it," growled Athos, his expression darkening. "But Aramis, honestly, I **am** truly worried about the trial. I have several large gaps in my memory from the day of Bertrand's death that I just cannot fill. How will that look when I am questioned by the King?"

"What do you mean?" asked Aramis, concern colouring his voice.

"I mean just that," came the irritable answer. "I remember waking up here with Charlotte, then her father coming in and demanding she leave with him. I imagine I must have said or done something, but I cannot recall a thing."

"You attacked Michel," offered Aramis. "Do you not remember that? Surely such an incredibly satisfying moment would not be lost to you."

Athos shook his head, and hit the wall with his fist in frustration. "How am I supposed to defend myself? No matter how hard I try, I have no memory of the events that occurred at the shop until Bertrand started seizing, which is a massive problem. I do remember arriving there with the Captain, but after that-it is a complete blank. It will be Michel the upright apprentice's word against the word of an accused poisoner-who incidentally, has no recollection whatsoever of what actually happened—and the word of his paramour, who happens to be an accused witch."

Aramis felt his stomach twist as he considered Athos' words. "What about the Captain? He knows what happened-he was there."

"I am not at all sure how helpful his testimony will be. If he knew something important, the charges would have already been dropped." He fell silent, then asked wistfully, "Could I have another ice water compress for my eyes? If I am to die, I want to at least see Charlotte's face one more time."

"You are not going to die!" Aramis shouted, running his hands through his hair in annoyance. "That is—unless I kill you myself! Which I will be tempted to do if you continue along this line of pessimistic thought. Charlotte needs someone to lift her spirits. She is already upset enough after you-"

He stopped immediately, realizing he had made a mistake.

"After I what?" Athos' voice was deadly quiet. That particular tone was the one Aramis dreaded the most. He could deal with Athos screaming or cursing, but when his friend spoke as if ice was running through his veins, it unnerved him to no end.

Aramis sighed, knowing that the truth would have to be told. "When you first began to regain consciousness, you spoke Anne's name."

Athos cursed under his breath. "Damn her. She stalks me at every turn. I have no doubt she will worm her way into the trial with Michel, hoping to witness me being sentenced to death."

"While I am willing to grant you a moment to wallow in self-pity, you need to realize that the more important issue here is that she stalks **Charlotte** at every turn." Aramis spoke sternly while staring at his friend, frustrated for once that he could not directly challenge Athos' cool blue eyes. "With that little scene at the apothecary, she managed to insert a healthy dose of doubt into Charlotte's mind about whether she can ever eclipse the memory of Milady in your mind. And while I do not hold you responsible for uttering Milady's name while you were incoherent, I do expect you to reassure the lovely Charlotte that **she** is the one you owns your heart."

"That is what I was doing," snapped Athos, immediately becoming defensive.

"Athos, you were flirting," retorted Aramis, his voice cutting. "There is a big difference between that and allowing yourself to be vulnerable enough to tell her in an open and honest way what is in your heart. That is, if you are man enough to do so."

Athos turned white with fury. "Get out!" he shouted. "I have no need of your so-called advice."

"I will go, and happily," a bitter Aramis replied. "But you are only angry because you know I am right—and you are too afraid to go down that road. But you have been warned, my friend." As he shut the door, an enraged Athos blindly felt for the ceramic pitcher of water next to the bed. Grasping the handle, he picked it up and flung it against the wall, shattering it into pieces. Falling back against the pillows with a groan, he exhaled, trying to calm his roiling emotions. _He has no idea what he is talking about. Charlotte knows exactly how I feel._

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Treville sat behind his desk, wearily rubbing his eyes. The news Aramis had brought him of Athos' spotty memory loss had been most unwelcome. He knew the way the suspicious mind of the King worked, and he was sure that a few choice, well-placed comments by the Cardinal would be all that would be needed to turn the tide against Athos and Charlotte. It had been quite some time since a witch had been burned, and Richelieu always relished any chance for the public punishment of a heretic. The prospect of that, combined with the chance to hang a disgraced musketeer, would be difficult for the Cardinal to resist.

"So, what do we do now?" he asked, feeling that defeat was closing in on them. Aramis and Porthos, usually quick to offer a suggestion, were both uncharacteristically silent.

Finally, Porthos cleared his throat. "Captain, is there anythin' you can remember—or perhaps embellish a bit—" he glanced at Aramis, "-in order to shine a more favourable light on Athos and Charlotte?"

"You want me to lie?!" the Captain was stunned by the idea.

"Listen, this is not a fair fight." Porthos leaned forward, his voice intense. "We know for a fact that both of them have been framed. What's wrong with playin' a bit dirty? It's your word against Michel's."

"The alternative," mused Aramis, "is to somehow make the so called "evidence" disappear."

"Oooh, I hadn't thought of that," said Porthos admiringly. "I like the way you think, Aramis. Captain, do you have any idea where it might be stored while they are awaiting trial?"

"No, but I could make some discreet inquires." Treville was thoughtful. "Let me see what I find out."

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As Constance turned the last corner to the Dauphin's nursery, an arm shot out and pulled her into a room. She began to shriek as a hand closed over her mouth, then relaxed when she realized it was d'Artagnan. He released her for an instant, and she hissed, "D'Artagnan! What is wrong with you? You scared me half—" Her words were drowned out as he pulled her into his arms. Before she could say another word, his mouth had descended upon hers, drawing her into a passionate kiss.

As she sighed in pleasure, her hands combing through his dark hair, d'Artagnan stopped and looked at her intently. "Can your husband make you feel like that? I doubt it. **When** are you going to tell him, Constance? The longer you wait, the harder it will be—for everyone."

"He got back late last night," Constance said softly, placing d'Artagnan's face in her hands. "I promise to talk to him tonight. I will not lose heart, no matter what."

"Do you want me to be there?" he whispered, finding it difficult to stop staring into her alluring brown eyes. "I will do whatever you wish. I love you—so much."

"Perhaps it **would** be a good idea if you were present," Constance breathed, leaning into his body as if she wished to melt into him completely. "His temper is sometimes—unpredictable."

"Done," he muttered, finding her lips once again and losing himself in the eager sweetness of her response.

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When Charlotte returned to Athos' room with a tray bearing soup and a carafe of wine, she was disconcerted to find pieces of the water pitcher lying on the floor in a puddle. Athos was still in bed, and lay motionless. He was facing the wall, but she suspected he was awake.

"What happened here?" she asked quietly, setting the tray down on the small stool next to the bed.

"Aramis. We had a difference of opinion."

"Care to elaborate?" Charlotte inquired, tucking a stray lock of hair beyond his ear as she leaned over to kiss his cheek.

"No."

She pursed her lips, disturbed by the fact that he had quarrelled with his friend. However, she realized that she was unlikely to coax the details out of Athos when his mood had changed so drastically for the worse.

"How about some soup, then?" she asked, trying to make her voice cheerful. "Serge's famous chicken soup, still piping hot from the kitchen."

Athos turned towards her. She was gratified to see that the swelling in his face had gone down just a bit, and he was able to open his eyes slightly.

"Charlotte. You know how I feel about you."

She was unsure how to respond to the way he had worded the statement.

"Yes?" she finally offered, sounding more tentative than she meant to.

He seemed agitated, and ran a hand through his hair. "I have told you—I remember that, at least-in the cart, on the way to the Chatelet."

"You mean that you love me?"

"Exactly." Relief was evident in his voice.

A thought inserted itself into her mind, and she raised an eyebrow at him quizzically. "I don't suppose I was the topic of the quarrel with Aramis?"

"Perhaps." He fell silent, then said, "Thank you for going to the trouble to fetch the soup for me, but I do not feel up to eating just now. Possibly later." He turned back over to face the wall.

Charlotte knelt next to the bed. "Athos, please. Do not shut me out. You may not be comfortable saying it again, so I will-I love you, and I would do anything for you." She paused, then continued on, her voice trembling with emotion. "If Aramis told you I need to hear the same from you, he is right. Do you have any idea how difficult it was for me to hear your ex-wife talk about how you could not get enough of her? And to see how the two of you still have an unmistakable chemistry even now? Well, I will tell you what it felt like. It was hell."

"I cannot control her." His voice was lifeless. "That was the problem when I was married, and it is the problem now."

"This is **not** about you and Milady! This is about you and me! Is she to be this shadow that remains over us forever? Or is this just your way of pushing me away to keep from getting hurt again? Either way, you need to be honest with yourself, Athos. If you cannot do that, there is no way you can be honest with me."

He remained still, and she shook her head in frustration as she picked up the tray. "I am going to take this back down to the kitchen. I will give you an hour, then I will see if you are ready to talk—but this must be resolved. If one or both of us is sentenced to death, I do not want to have any regrets."

As she left the room, Athos found his thoughts in turmoil, and he hit the wall again with his fist, tears pricking at his eyes._ I want so desperately to be happy-but i must admit that there are undeniable elements of truth to what both Aramis and Charlotte have said. The thought of loving someone with my heart and soul again, after having been destroyed the first time...if I am honest with myself, it is the biggest fear I have. The question is-how do I conquer it?_

**Next time...Athos works up the courage to talk openly with Charlotte, and Porthos has a conversation with Denise.**


	49. Chapter 49

**Chapter XLIX...in which Athos and Charlotte have a heart to heart talk, and Porthos finds himself asking Denise to dinner.**

**CHAPTER XLIX**

Porthos was rummaging through a trunk at the foot of his bed when he heard a soft knock on the door. "Come in!" he called out, sure it was Aramis or d'Artagnan. "But a word of warnin'-if you have taken my spare shirt, there will be hell to pay!"

He turned to see Denise, framed by the soft light of the winter sun. Her glossy black hair flowed loosely over her shoulders, and her grey eyes shone in amusement. "I believe I may be the culprit—do you recall asking me to mend this?" She held out his shirt, freshly starched and laundered. The crisp linen was folded precisely, and the repair on the tear in the front of the shirt was flawless.

Porthos, a bit flustered, stood up. "Apologies. I thought you were one of the other men. I mean, obviously you are not a man, but when you knocked—" He found himself fumbling for words as he looked down at her. She was so petite as to appear delicate, but had a merry sparkle in her eyes that he sensed was due to a very keen sense of humour. The big man stopped and cleared his throat, then grinned. "What I am tryin' to say is, thank you so much. It looks brilliant—I can't even tell where I tore it. I completely forgot that I gave it to you. I know you said you would mend it for free, but please let me pay. You went to the trouble of bringin' it back, after all."

"It **was** quite an arduous journey, especially as I am currently housed in the next building." Her tone was teasing, and she smiled at him impishly. "No charge. It was my pleasure. Madeleine really enjoyed her time with you. Thank you for being so kind to her."

"Well, if you won't accept payment, please let me take you to dinner tonight," Porthos urged her. "I know a great little inn that is quiet and close by.

"Madeleine did ask if she could spend the dinner hour with Serge learning to make his famous beef stew, so I will be alone for dinner. It would be lovely to have some company."

A grin spread across the big man's face. "Good. Six o' clock?"

"It's a date," she replied, preparing to leave.

He placed his hand on her arm, staying her for a moment. "Before you go, I have to tell you that you have a lovely little daughter. She is sharp as a tack—in fact, she has already named all the chickens, and has plans for what she is going to ask Serge to cook with the eggs she gathers in the morning."

"That's Madeleine." Her voice was wistful. "She is so much like her father. He was a man who loved life, and lived it to the fullest. Nothing ever slowed him down for a second—until he got sick with a summer fever. He was delirious in six hours, and dead within eighteen. I never got to say a proper goodbye." Her eyes misted. "Even now, four years on, it still hurts."

"I am so sorry," Porthos said softly, taking her hand. "You have done a remarkable job as a single mother."

"I have not done it alone, believe me. My mother has been a rock. She lives with me, and helps care for Madeleine when I am inundated with sewing projects."

"You are lucky to have your mother." Porthos' face was wistful. "Mine died when I was five."

"And your father?" she asked gently.

"Never knew 'im." He raised his eyes to hers a bit defiantly. "But my mum did the best she could when he left us. I only wish she had lived so I could have cared for her the way she did for me."

"So we have both been scarred by loss," Denise observed, lost in thought. She finally came back to the present, smiling ruefully. "Sorry. My mind wandered off. Thank you for the invitation. I'll see you at six."

As she bid him farewell and closed the door, Porthos sat down on his bed, wondering why he suddenly felt so nervous.

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When Charlotte returned to Athos' quarters, she took a deep breath before knocking on the door. As far as physical and moral courage, the musketeer was quite possibly the bravest person she had ever met. There was no doubt, though, that his marriage to Milady had left him a broken man. Even now, he was clearly haunted by the memory of their time together.

She had heard Aramis and Porthos jokingly allude to Athos' drinking habits on multiple occasions. Charlotte had discounted the comments as teasing, as she herself had never seen Athos drunk except for the night he had come to the apothecary shop. Even then, he had been in control of his faculties, and had remembered everything the next day.

However, now she wondered if there was a degree of truth to the banter. She recalled Aramis' words to her about Athos-_He is finding you more addictive than the wine he is so fond of._ If he indeed drank heavily at times, he was likely in much more emotional pain than his stoic manner let on.

_Now or never_. Charlotte knocked loudly, and heard his voice bid her to enter. As she crossed the threshold and shut the door, she noticed that he was holding a cloth over his eyes. _Someone has been here._

"You had a visitor, it seems."

His voice was detached. "Yes, d'Artagnan stopped by. Constance is planning to tell her husband tonight that she is leaving him, and she asked d'Artagnan to be there in case things get—heated. He wanted some advice."

"I see. What did you tell him?" she inquired.

He took the cloth off his eyes, and she was pleased to see that his eyes were now able to open halfway.

"I told him to be honest, and to support the woman he loves. Basically, exactly what Aramis urged me to do earlier." Athos paused, then continued, his voice filled with remorse. "Charlotte, you were right. I have not been completely open with you, and I doubt that I **have** resolved all my emotions over the breakup of my marriage. How could I have? I thought she was **dead**—**dead** **by my hand**-until last year, when she suddenly appeared in my life again."

"Dead by your hand?" Charlotte whispered, her voice disbelieving. "That is just not possible. You are **not** that kind of man."

"Charlotte, you think you know me," he replied wearily, closing his eyes and turning away from her. "But you don't—not at all."

Sliding into bed next to him, she wrapped her arm around him. "Then tell me," she said softly. "Tell me everything there is to know."

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Some time later, Athos had finished the long and complicated story. Charlotte had remained silent through the first rough sketch he gave her of the events, then asked him go more into depth with the story.

"I can only imagine how painful it is for you to relive all this," she murmured, combing her fingers through his hair in an attempt to relax him. Charlotte could feel that his muscles were taut with tension, and his voice had become emotional at times. "But if I am going to have to face this woman at the trial, and if we are to have a future together, I need to know everything there is to know about her and about what happened between the two of you." _No matter how much it hurts to hear you talk about loving another woman._

When he had answered all her questions, he sighed and kissed her hand. "I think the thing that I find most disturbing is that she truly fooled me—and Thomas paid the ultimate price for my gullibility. As I told you, when I met her, she presented herself to me as the innocent youn sister of the village priest. I only found out after Thomas' death that the priest was not her brother, but her lover. As a sixteen year old novice in a convent, she had seduced him, and they had fled the cloister to live together."

"I suppose you were the next rung for her to climb on the social ladder?"

Athos grimaced. "And it was my strong sense of morality that sealed my fate. Any other nobleman would have simply seduced her or taken her by force. But I was so gullible—I was completely captivated by her. It is difficult to explain, but I had never met anyone like her. She seemed so pure and guileless—and she was beautiful, there's no doubt about that." His voice became faraway. "But there was a whole other side to her—a side she convinced me that I alone had the ability to bring out in her—the earthy, passionate…" He stopped. "I really hate talking about this, especially with you. You must think me a reckless man who is easily duped."

She laid a finger on his lips. "No, I do not. I think that you were very much in love with a woman who is an impressive actress. You are correct in saying that most men would have just seduced her. But you are not like most men-honour is everything to you. Athos, you trusted her because you had lived in a world where a man's-or woman's-word was everything. The concepts of chivalry and honesty were instilled in you from birth. It would have never crossed your mind to suspect that she was anyone other than who she presented herself to be. No one on this earth is perfect. We are all human—we all make mistakes. They hurt, but we learn from them. We pick ourselves up, and we go on—battered and bruised, but we go on-and we are stronger for it."

He was quiet for a moment, then murmured, "But Thomas did not get a chance to go on. I did, while he lies dead in a grave these five years. Five years when he might have married, had children…"

"Athos, listen to me." Charlotte's voice was compassionate. "You cannot blame yourself. Thomas would not want you to suffer for the rest of your life. Is this why you drive yourself so mercilessly, and apply such impossibly high standards to yourself? Standards that you would never expect the others to live by? I have heard Porthos and Aramis speak of it. You sleep the least, train the longest, and drink the hardest. If you think that will help you to atone for what you believe is your role in your brother's death, it will not—it will only lead you down a path to a lonely life and an early death."

The musketeer had hitherto remained impassiv, but at the last sentence, his eyes began to fill with tears. Charlotte kissed his forehead, then pressed on. "My love, the key to saving you from self-destructing **is** within your reach—but it will require you to do perhaps the most difficult thing possible-to forgive yourself. I will help you in any way I can, but I cannot make it happen. You must show mercy to the man who lived those tragic events five years ago. You must realize that it was only strength of character, not some innate flaw or brokenness, that set into motion your marriage and the events that followed. You wanted to do the right thing by the woman you loved—a woman whom you believed was pure and honest. How was that wrong, or foolish?"

"I wish I could believe that," Athos said hoarsely, staring at the ceiling. "I want this all to go away, Charlotte. I just want to believe it never happened."

"As do I when I think of my father's death. But we cannot go backwards in time, Athos. We can only go forwards, and live the best life we can, surrounded by the people who love us and want us to be whole. Aramis, Porthos, d'Artagnan, Captain Treville—they all want that for you—and so do I." She smoothed the damp hair back from his forehead, and sat quietly, waiting for him to speak.

He swallowed, then looked at her, his blue eyes filled with emotion. "What twist of fate put you in my life? There was a string of events that happened entirely by chance…I should never have been on guard duty on Christmas Eve. I would never have been shot if I had been one second slower blocking Aramis from the path of the bullet. If you father had not been out—if Treville had chosen another apothecary shop…" His voice trailed away.

"All the stars must have been in alignment," Charlotte whispered, her eyes misting as she thought of how lucky she was to have had her path cross his on that fateful evening.

"Perhaps," he said softly. "Or perhaps it was just time for me to find love again."

**The emotion was strong in this chapter, but I hope it rang true. I'd love to hear what you thought...**

**Next time...more of the boys and their women.**


	50. Chapter 50

**Chapter L...in which a flotilla of ships (Annamis, Charthos, Constagnan, and our newest ship, still to be christened-Denthos? Porthise?) sail in celebration of the 50th chapter. **

**CHAPTER L**

As the six o' clock bell rang from the Church of St. Mary Magdalene, Porthos arrived at Denise and Madeleine's room. He lifted his hand to knock, then stopped suddenly as he heard a sweet alto voice raised in song. The melody was lilting and joyous, and Porthos found himself listening intently, entranced by the tune. When the notes finally died away, he tapped on the door, which was promptly opened by Denise. She drew him inside with a smile.

"Hello! Come in while I get my cloak. The wind seems to have picked up quite a bit."

"Yes, it definitely is gettin' cold," answered Porthos, feeling a bit self-conscious as she closed the door behind him. He suddenly became aware that he was twisting his hat in his hands. _Relax, just be natural_. "Was that you I heard singing?"

She flushed slightly as she wrapped her dark blue cloak around her shoulders. "Yes. I didn't realize I had an audience."

"Well, you did—and a very appreciative one. You have a beautiful voice."

"Thank you," she murmured, her fingers fumbling a bit with the clasp at her throat.

"Here, let me." Porthos' innate gallantry caused him to forget how nervous he was. His fingers, surprisingly deft for a large man, grasped the edges of the clasp, fastening it firmly in place. As his hands brushed against the skin of her neck, she felt a slight tremor run through her body. Alain had often done the same thing for her before she left the house, and always completed the gesture by drawing her into his arms for a lingering kiss. It had been a long time since a man had treated her with tenderness, and tears filled her eyes.

Porthos noticed the stricken expression on her face, and drew back instantly, afraid he had offended her. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be forward. I should have-"

"No!" she shook her head vigorously. "It is not you. It's just-" Her voice broke. "I was just thinking of my husband. He used to do the same thing for me, and it's been so long-" She wiped her tears away. "I am so sorry. You must think me silly for bringing up old ghosts."

"Not at all." Porthos' voice was warm and compassionate. He reached for her hands, his gentle touch soothing her. "I think that you were just rememberin' how lovely is it to have someone care about you. There's nothin' wrong with that. You know what? When I was a child, my mother used to sing to me every night to help me fall asleep. Believe me, even now, if I hear one of her favourite tunes, I tear up—but there's always a bit of a smile on my face, too. A love that pure is too good not to remember."

She looked up at him through her dark lashes, stunned by how he had handled a very awkward moment with such grace and care. Nodding, she smiled through her tears. "I agree."

As he returned her smile, he said softly, "I may not be able to ease the pain in your heart, but I have been told I give some amazin' hugs. Would it help to have me hold you, just for a moment? I know that when my mother died, I longed for someone to wrap their arms around me and hold me close, just the way she used to."

Denise's face crumpled at his words, and she began to cry in earnest. She had not realized until that moment how heavy was the burden of loneliness that she carried. Her days were long and tiring. When she was not sewing, cooking, or caring for the chickens, her focus was on making sure that her daughter was happy and content. She had very little time for herself, and no other companion except her mother. Denise was grateful for the help her mother gave her, but she was not always easy to live with, and could be overbearing and critical at times.

Porthos drew her into his arms, and held her silently while she sobbed. _I doubt she's had a good cry since the day he died._ He stroked her curly black hair, content to offer a reassuring presence until she had calmed. When she finally drew back and gazed up at him, gratitude was evident in her face. "Thank you," she whispered. "I had no idea how much I needed that. Just to have someone touch me in such a comforting way was so—healing."

He grinned down at her. "I'm available any time you need it. Well, not any time, I suppose—I doubt the Captain would look kindly on me breakin' formation to hug a woman, no matter how pretty she is."

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When d'Artagnan arrived at the Bonacieux residence, he immediately felt uneasy. The sound of a male voice, raised in anger, could be easily heard in the street. He swore under his breath, cursing the fact that he had been forced to wait at the palace to personally deliver the letter Treville had entrusted him to take to the King. It was the Louis' fault that d'Artagnan had been late, and now Constance was paying the price. He had planned to be waiting by her side when her husband got home, but obviously Jacques had arrived well before him.

Pounding on the door, he shouted, "Bonacieux! Open up! I would speak with you!" A cry of pain came from inside the house, and d'Artagnan tensed. _Constance._

The door was wrenched open by Bonacieux, whose eyes burned with hatred when he saw the musketeer. He held his wife tightly by the elbow, and d'Artagnan felt fury flood through his body when he saw that Constance's cheek had the imprint of a hand on it.

"I should have known it would come to this!" His voice was slurred, and he was obviously quite drunk. "I curse the day we ever allowed you to lodge here! My wife was happy—she was content—until you came along and seduced her!"

"Let her go." D'Artagnan's voice was measured, but icy. His hand was already on the hilt of his sword, signalling that he was intent on backing up his words with action if so required. His dark brown eyes were fixed on Constance, and he saw that she was pale with fright.

"I tried to tell him, d'Artagnan—"

"Shut up!" Jacques screamed, slapping her again. At that moment, d'Artagnan launched himself bodily at the enraged man, knocking him to the ground. Before Bonacieux had registered what had happened, the musketeer had him by the throat. Gasping for air, Constance's husband froze as he felt the cold metal of a pistol pressed to his temple.

"You do NOT talk to her that way again. EVER. You do NOT touch her again. EVER. She is now under my protection, and you will have to come through me to get to her."

"She is MY wife," sneered Bonacieux. "The holy vows of matrimony are indissoluble."

"Not if you are dead," d'Artagnan hissed, giving the man threatening look as he cocked the pistol. "Do we understand each other?"

Bonacieux nodded slowly, his eyes hazy with a contempt that was now tempered by fear.

"Constance." The musketeer spoke her name softly, keeping his gaze fixed on the draper. "Wait for me outside. I will be but a moment."

She gingerly skirted her husband's prone figure, looking back nervously at d'Artagnan, then slipped out the door.

"Do not make the mistake of taking my words lightly. I WILL kill you, without reservation, if you come within five feet of her ever again."

"Don't worry-I shall be quite content with watching Constance self-destruct from a distance." Bonacieux's words were filled with venom. "She is foolish and impulsive, and will doubtless be begging me to take her back within a month. By your side, she will never be anything more than a whore in the eyes of society. If you are actually able to get her with child, which I doubt you will—God knows I've tried-your children will be bastards, and will be spit upon by honest folk. You reap what you sow, d'Artagnan. Beware the harvest."

D'Artagnan stood up and barked out a bitter laugh. "Is that my cue to be afraid? Well, I have a message of my own for you." He unsheathed a small dagger and drove it through the cuff of Bonacieux's jacket, effectively pinning his hand to the floor. "You have been warned," he growled, stepping over his body and exiting the house.

Constance, her face lined with worry, was overcome with relief when she saw d'Artagnan emerge into the darkness unscathed. Throwing her arms around him and pressing her head against his chest, she murmured, "Please, get me out of here. I want to go home—to my new home, with you."

"You're free now, Constance," he said with emotion, hugging her to him tightly.

He guided her to his horse, and was about to help her mount up when a drunken shout came from behind him. "I warned you! Beware the harvest!"

"D'Artagnan! He's got a pistol!" Constance screamed, and d'Artagnan whirled around. As Bonacieux pulled the trigger, d'Artagnan fired nearly simultaneously, and the sound was deafening. When the noise faded away, a piercing cry of pain split the silence.

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Aramis had left the garrison as dusk approached, and rode the streets of Paris aimlessly. Before he knew it, he had arrived at the east gate of the palace. He saluted the musketeers on duty, and was waved through. Dismounting, he leaned his head against his saddle for a moment, debating whether to go in or not. Gabriel had told him that the Queen was now in the habit of going to evening Mass in the chapel, which the new chaplain celebrated every day at 5 pm.

_I could just be another believer looking for spiritual sustenance_, he thought. _There is nothing at all suspicious about attending Mass_. Comforted, he strode into the east wing, and made his way to the chapel. Father Lucien was preparing to start, and Aramis slid into the last pew, trying not to stare at the Queen. Other than the two of them, there were only two elderly women present, sitting two rows in front of him. As the familiar rhythms of the Mass started, Aramis found his thoughts alternating between prayer and the Queen.

The image in his mind of the two of them stretched out in her bed, quietly talking while they gazed at their sleeping infant son, tugged at his heart. He buried his head in his hands, wondering if he was doomed to suffer the rest of his life. The worry he had for Athos and Charlotte also was troubling him, and weighed heavily on his mind. Although he had been sure to be positive in his conversation with Athos, Aramis had become increasingly uneasy since he had learned that the King would be the one to decide their fate.

Before he knew it, Mass was over, and the two old women walked past him, leaving the chapel empty except for Anne and himself. Father Lucien busied himself with tidying up the altar and sacristy, and the Queen bowed her head in prayer. When she finally stood up, her azure eyes met Aramis' at once, as if a magnet had drawn her to him.

A powerful longing filled the musketeer as he stared at her. He sensed that she felt it as strongly as he did. He stepped out of the pew and approached her slowly, taking her hand with care when she extended it to him.

"Your Majesty," he said softly, kissing her hand with perfect courtesy, his lips warm and gentle against her skin. "I am glad to see you are looking well after the harrowing events of the other evening."

"I am, thanks to God and you, Monsieur Aramis. I know the King would join me in thanking you once again, but he is spending the night at his hunting lodge with his courtiers."

Aramis straightened up as he released her hand, and felt his heart begin to pound. _We can be alone._ The expression on his face, a mixture of anticipation and joy, showed her that he had understood the implicit message in her words. "Until we meet again," she whispered, then rustled past him, her silk gown brushing against his hand. Father Lucien blew out the candles of the altar and left as well. The candles burning on the side altars were the only light left in the darkened chapel, and Aramis disappeared into the shadows that flanked the staircase to the Queen's sitting room, slipping out the key that he kept in his breast pocket.

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Athos had felt well enough that evening to get up and walk around the room, supported by Charlotte at her insistence. "You are doing very well," she exclaimed. "It's like you barely even need me to help you." The only light in the room was from the flames dancing in the fireplace, and Athos was struck by how lovely she appeared in the flickering light.

"I doubt I could do this by myself," he murmured, making a show of leaning on her heavily.

"I am not fooled by your acting," she responded archly, raising an eyebrow at him. "Now that you are fit enough, you need to take a proper bath."

The corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile. "And if I require assistance?"

"Leave your braes on, and I will think about it," she replied, giving him a sweet smile. "I do not think you are quite up to being roguish as of yet, so I may be persuaded to help if you behave."

"On my honour, I shall be the most model patient you have ever had."

Pulling him behind the screen that had been set up once again, Charlotte gently pushed him down onto the bench by the tub. "I will be the judge of how compliant you are. Now let me undress you." She looked up at him coyly through her long lashes, her brown eyes sparkling with mischief. "Do not even pretend you haven't longed to hear me say that."

He suppressed a chuckle, schooling his face to appear as innocent as a choirboy. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Hmm….once again, not very convincing, I'm afraid." Her hands slid under his linen shirt, coming to rest at his waist. "Can you raise your arms?"

Wincing slightly, he lifted up his elbows to shoulder height, and Charlotte managed to easily guide his linen shirt up and over his head. She folded it carefully, then placed it on a table next to the screen. Turning back to him, she flushed. Athos had stood up, and was gazing at her, his expression unreadable. It had been some time since she had seen him shirtless, and the magnetism of his presence, combined with the defined musculature of a master swordsman, was almost overwhelming.

Attempting to appear coolly efficient, she dropped her hands to his waist, her light fingers deftly unbuckling his belt. His eyes darkened, and he said huskily, "I admit that this particular part may have flitted through my daydreams once or twice."

As she slipped his belt off, he knocked it aside, and took her hands in his. "Bathe with me." His voice was hoarse with longing, and she suddenly felt very shy.

Reading her face, he murmured, "No strings attached. Leave your chemise on. I promise to be a gentleman."

"I'll need your help, then," she said softly. She was about to instruct him how to aid her, but he had already circled around her. His hands were gentle, but experienced, and within a minute or two, her dress was off, and he was unlacing the last of her stays, finally freeing her from the corset. _Of course. How naïve of me to think I would have to tell him what to do. He probably did this dozens of times for Milady_.

As if reading her thoughts, Athos took her hand and helped her into the large tub, then slipped his breeches off and slid in next to her, clad only in his braes. He drew her through the steaming water to float against his chest, then bent to kiss the nape of her neck. His lean, muscular chest glided against the thin material of her chemise, and she found the feeling incredibly sensual. The gossamer layer of cotton was now clinging to her body, revealing every curve that had hitherto been hidden by the boxy cut of the garment. "You are so different from her," he murmured, his hands wrapping around her slim waist. "So—entirely-different. I am a very lucky man."

She turned to face him, and was arrested by his seductive blue eyes. The smouldering look Athos gave her took her breath away. Before she knew it, his mouth had descended on hers, and they were locked in a passionate kiss. His hands wound through her hair as he explored her mouth thoroughly, encouraging her to follow his lead. Within several minutes, she had become as charged with desire as he was, and her hands began to roam over his broad back, revelling in the feel of his wet skin under her fingers.

She pulled away for a moment to catch her breath, and swallowed heavily. "You are giving a whole new meaning to the term _model patient_."

He gave a soft laugh, then fingered the chain around her neck. "Have I told you how much I love seeing this ring around your neck?"

"You may have, but tell me again."

"Perhaps I should show you instead," Athos murmured, and dropped his lips to the hollow of her throat. He traced the path of the chain down to the ring itself, which was nestled between her breasts. She arched her back as his mouth traversed the soft, sensitive skin, tangling her hands in his hair. A sigh of pleasure escaped from her, followed by a sharp inhale as he continued his casual survey. "Athos, you're driving me mad," she whispered, then dissolved into a moan of ecstasy as he intensified his efforts. "I cannot take any more-"

"I am quite busy on multiple fronts right now," he muttered with a smirk, "so you will have to be more specific about exactly what you wish me to stop doing."

"This is not what I had in mind when you said we would bathe together-" she gasped, trying to steady her breathing.

He paused, then straightened up and leaned back against the edge of the tub, regarding her speculatively. "You are right—it may be a bit unseemly, considering that we have no formal understanding. So, perhaps we should rectify that."

Taking a deep breath, he was silent for a moment, then reached for her, drawing her close and gazing into her eyes with a look full of emotion. "Charlotte Gaillard, you have singlehandedly brought me back to life. I was in a very dark place before I met you, and I have come to realize that I want you by my side for the rest of my life, no matter how short or long a period of time I have left on this earth. I love you with all my heart and soul. Will you marry me?"

**I cannot believe we are at chapter 50...the support and encouragement you have given me make it all worthwhile! Much love to all who have reviewed, favorited and followed! There is still a bit of story left to tell...**

**Next time...joy and sorrow as the trial comes ever closer.**


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